


The Melody of the Broken Heart

by lool_gilliana (HJC_ChenZhiDe)



Series: Those Rhythms are Love [1]
Category: Sex Education (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HJC_ChenZhiDe/pseuds/lool_gilliana
Summary: A series of events happened around Jean following the season finale.- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Music that you can listen with:• Chapter 1: Already Gone - Sleeping At Last• Chapter 2: Wonderful U - AGA• Chapter 3: Paralyzed - NF• Chapter 4: Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova• Chapter 5: All I Want - Kodaline• Chapter 6: Break My Heart Again - FINNEAS• Chapter 7: Epilogue - Keaton Henson
Relationships: Jean Milburn/Jakob Nyman
Series: Those Rhythms are Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938625
Comments: 34
Kudos: 65





	1. Already Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Today is Mikael Persbrandt (Jakob)'s birthday. So....  
> -  
> There's a few songs I listened to when I work on this fic. Initially, I intended to write a one-shot fic, but I ended up writing too long to be confined in one. So I decided to name each of my chapters according to one of the songs that had inspired me. The song could/could not be related to the plot of the storyline.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by [" _Already Gone_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRZqKA9r8qc) by Sleeping At Last

She thought she was ready for this.

This is all she wanted all along. It’s a decision which she won’t need to make. A settlement in which the law of survival of the fittest has taken its place. 

This is it. This is the end.

But when a sudden sharp pain struck across her lower abdomen as though she is split into thousands of shards, when the toilet bowl stained in crimson that is still warm from slipping out of her, when a single tear rolled down her cheek then followed by bursting tears like the drizzling rain of a spring evening that she can see from the window – a realisation hit her. It’s all she really wanted all along. Isn’t it?

Clutching her abdomen tightly, she bites her trembling lips as the waving dull cramps tear her apart again and again and again. She tries to hold back the tears that came streaming down her face, but it doesn’t work. All she can do now is sitting on the toilet seat, aching, shaking, beaten by the full force of emotions thoroughly. 

As the world has crumbled. 

There was once she thought she was ready to embrace someone into her life again. Until she realised, she wasn’t ready at all.

There was once she thought she was ready to become that kind of intimacy that he’s looking for. Until she realised, she might not be ready at all.

There was once she thought she was ready to accept things that she would lose forever. Until the second before this, she just realised she would never want to be ready at all.

But she still loses him, at this moment. She is losing the _very last bit_ of him. She is losing every single piece of her broken self that she grasped using her last breath. 

She wonders if she will be able to live.

•

#### A Few Weeks Earlier

It was just the same as the implicit routine of the past few days, as they had set a seat for silence at the table.

“I, uh, I just wanted to say,” Otis said, breaking the silence as if it used up all his courage. “I’m sorry, Mum.”

Across their table, Jean was leaning back against the chair, the newspaper in her hands rose to a level that could cover all of her. Otis waited for a moment; no response from the person at the back of the newspaper. 

“Sorry for coming home late after the play,” he said. “Anyway, you already went into your room when I got home,” immediately, he realised that wasn’t what he intended to say. “No! Sorry! Not a complaint, just the, argh…” 

It was a new morning filled with glittering hopes of a fresh start, supposedly. The first time in his life Otis nurtured distaste for Nutella. He found the mixture of the toast and creamy chocolate was exceptionally hard to swallow. Thanks to the irritating awkwardness swinging swiftly in the air this morning.

“Well, I knew I gave you my words that we could talk,” he sighed and continued, a little bit of frustration now. “But there was something urgent that needed my immediate attention,” subconsciously, he gazed down to his phone for the 59th time since he left the caravan park last night. Neither a notification nor a call that he longed for had ever popped up. “Never-the-less, I’m so, so sorry for everything. Even though my initiative for the clinic was good – no, not good – I mean, I just wanted to help the students. And, indeed, they needed my help, they needed appropriate information and advice on sex. Perhaps for what I didn’t expect, it was somehow…” he intoned. “Feeding my self-esteem, even my ego, my desire, that I’m lost into it...” 

Confessing to his mother, he wouldn’t want to involve Maeve in this matter, not just yet. So, he stared down at his phone again. The 60th time, no response from Maeve. Looked up, no response from his mother either. He wondered if this was how communication had failed, how a relationship had decayed. He wouldn’t want that. If he ever cared, he should always step forward with honesty. 

“But now, I’m aware that operating an underground sex clinic in the school campus and charging students for advice were wrong. I know lying was wrong,” his voice lowered but filled with genuine. “And I’ll do whatever I can to make up for this. Truly, willingly. No irrational complaints. No immature defences.”

He raised his sight as a glimpse for hopes. But Jean still showed him a bold white line of _National Echo_ rather than her face as if this was all he deserved.

“Right. It’s completely understandable if you’re still mad at me because I didn’t keep my words this time. But please, Mum, can you just say something – like, anything?”

Zero response. Again.

“I thought we were moving on?” considering what happened yesterday, Otis stated confusedly. “Mum, do you hear me? Please –”

“Mhm,” she suddenly cut in and hummed.

Otis stilled, then frowned. “Is this ‘mhm’ something you wanted to say?”

“Mmhmm.”

“‘Mmhmm’?” he repeated to her. “Are you still upset with me or what?”

“…no,” a short statement slid out from her mouth, her voice was cold and diminished quickly. It did not sound like a _no_ at all. 

“OKAY, VERY WELL,” rolling his eyes, he opened his arms while standing up from his seat, waved them in the air as he was giving up for further attempts. He took a deep breath and stuffed his phone into the pocket. “I’m off to school then.” 

Grabbing his bag and jacket on the kitchen counter, Otis glanced at Jean again. She was still blocked by the large piece of paper. And the eye-catching headline inferred the recent hit political issue that was so far from their lives. He let out a sigh and turned away. But wait, how long did she spend reading the same page of the newspaper? 

The moment she heard the door closed behind Otis, the sound of the slamming door shot into her sensory nerves within seconds but moved all the way down to her spine – it got her goose bumps! Tossing the newspaper on the table in a way too rough, clamping her mouth with one hand in a way too vigorous, then standing up and racing to the countertop at the back in a way too inelegant. But she couldn’t care anymore, it all happened too soon, as she made it just in time to sick into the sink! 

_Fuck me_ , she thought while pulling herself together for a moment, then her stomach turned again. 

She bent down, generously offered another wave of vomiting to the sink. The acidic of the gastric juice drained over her throat and oesophagus mercilessly as it had scorched them. Each of her hands was clenched at the side of the countertop. She was cold, unusually cold. All her muscles tensed against the sensation as if someone had just poured a bucket of ice water from the top of her head to her toes.

This wasn’t the first time. 

She could still remember how she violently sicked into the toilet bowl the next morning after Maureen and her spent the desire-was-freed ladies’ night. Retching and coughing, she kneeled on the tiles of her bathroom floor, surrounded by empty bottles and stale crisps and a hairdryer in the bathtub. Obviously, there was much more desire-was-freed wild party going on in her house that night. She thought she had a hangover at the time – a serious one, which rarely happened to her – and now, she swore, _if only_ it was really a fucking hangover.

When her stomach finally emptied all of the contents and satisfyingly settled down, she leaned forward on the edge of the countertop but lifted her head to gasp for the air. She needed oxygen…and she needed him.

Turning the tap to wash her breakfast away – an undistinguished mixture of coffee and plain toast and bile – and she was thinking about Jakob, about the tap he had fixed because she wanted him. And now, tears slid out from her eyes which she couldn’t tell if it was from the impact of the miserable sickness or she did miss him despairingly. Or even both. 

Her world was spinning. But the world was still turning. So, it would be moving, day by day. Like two parallel lines that represented each of their lives, moving on from where their momentary intersection has left behind.

Sunbeams flowed through those big windows that she insisted Remi install when they renovated the house before moving in. Long and luminous, the rays were sweeping across the branches and leaves from the outside world in brilliant shades, then kissing her cheeks and soaking her entire in golden dust. Turning around with a deep sigh, she stared blankly at the shining lights that were moving across her space. It was here, where he held her hands after she turned him down even though all her nerves screamed at her for doing so. It was here again, where she went back to the kitchen after her vagina workshop, trying to make things less tense between them – just a stupid emotional ventilation, she could manage, of course, she could manage – only to find him packing his messy little things, the chestnut leather holdall he used to bring for overnights now placed at the side. _“I could not do this anymore, Jean,”_ he kissed her cheek for the last time before he left, gently, almost warmth-less. Eventually, he returned her the orderly, noiseless, enormous space that she wanted for two seconds alone with her own thoughts. 

This time, it was a sign of early spring. Blossomed buds and blossomed hopes, but she had already lost him twice. 

Gazing down at the gentle curve concealed in her yellow robe and silken nightdress, observing every single fine line of the contour quietly. Her heart ached again. _It_ was here – the half of her and the half of him – settled in her wrinkled skin, resided in her aged womb, whispering to her already.

There she wept again. It was not hormonal nor a broken heart, but herself be damned. 

Maybe, she wasn’t mean to lose him entirely. But she knew she still did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> -  
> Jeankob is my OTP, I always wish to write a fic for them but it actually took me a very long time to start working on it.  
> Because English isn't my first language, so it's really time-consuming in writing. And because at first I thought I'd like to wait for all the seasons of Sex Ed to be aired only to work on this ship (maybe 2 or 3 years from now haha), but since the pandemic had affected the production of Season 3, which meant we might not see the following seasons (if they had one) sooner. So, why not I just start writing?  
> -  
> Feel free to leave any comment/feedback/suggestion, I will like that very much!  
> AND! I have a few chapters finished writing, so I hope it won't take long for another chapter to be updated.  
> Cheers!


	2. Wonderful U

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by [" _Wonderful U_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3PHmtG0U2U) by AGA  
> -  
> There was the inclusion of the NHS's pregnancy and baby guide in England and Wales in this chapter. But I couldn't be sure whether or not the procedures/facts/events in my writing were 100% accurate because I'm not living in the UK, and certainly there could be things that I didn't know and understand. So, I'd like to apologise in advance!

She couldn’t do this. She told herself over and over again: _I ABSOLUTELY COULD NOT DO THIS_.

There was one Monday evening in the past two weeks that she had this Maggie – a decent lady in her 60’s who struggled with sex addiction (particularly in fucking those gorgeous young men). It wasn’t a big deal, really, it was pretty smooth too that she managed to suppress that goddamn nausea and not make an excuse to the guest lavatory for vomiting during the session. Until Maggie asked her expectantly if she was pregnant when she sent her to the porch.

 _“It’s ridiculous, Maggie, you must have mistaken!”_ pulling a face as if it was really ridiculous, she sounded overly confident for a reassurance. _“No, of course, I’m not pregnant.”_

Still, here she was – meeting her midwife for the first antenatal appointment. Because she was still in shock when the GP asked her if she wanted to continue the pregnancy. She wasn’t even able to talk when the GP then suggested putting her in touch with a midwifery service from the collaborated local hospital. 

Maggie made her scream inside. Stamping her feet annoyingly when she finally made herself to the hallway, she couldn’t think of the slightest clue which had been accidentally given out that revealed her condition. She had been putting on a loose blouse and tucked in a pair of black palazzo pants that flattered her body shape and was trying her best to concentrate during the session – she was HIDING it so fucking well!

To touch on that topic wasn’t her desired plan at all. A few relevant words still popped out of her head once a little while in the past two weeks. She could probably contemplate several possibilities to navigate her way out, critically and logically. Unfortunately, both critics and logics solely meant a dead end. Hence, a set of coping mechanisms had been consciously established. She would wait – waiting for her body to make her the best decision based on natural selection – she knew how statistics worked, given her age, high-risks meant _high risks_. And the best approach to deal with such gruelling waiting was denial and concealment and never invested any personal feelings or emotional attachment. She could pretend as if nothing had ever happened as long as _it_ began and ended all silently. She believed she could do this well. She would just wait.

Ended up, she was here – striving against nausea and light-headed, crossing her legs while sitting in a small, oppressing consultation room at the GP where a lovely midwife sat across the round desk. Evidently, her 2-week time of waiting paid her nothing.

“I’ve assisted a number of women in advanced maternal age in all these years, even with a few first-time mums,” Adrienne was her name. She caught it only after the sixth time when she glanced at her metallic name badge pinned at the left chest of her dark navy uniform. “So don’t worry, Jean, you’re in good hands.”

Adrienne is tall, her 5’8 feet height clearly had an advantage over Jean; and she is young, perhaps ten years her junior. Adrienne used to wink when talking to Jean, probably in a hard attempt to assure her. And all she could do was smiling weakly in return.

The first booking appointment was usually expected to spend at least an hour. Jean thought it would be feasible. It was just a session as she used to facilitate with her clients, she could assert and coast for the whole. It started with some small and manageable questions, more like a casual talk. First, it went to _how have you been feeling_. Though for her, listing different feelings on an A4-paper in full would be a piece of cake, thanks to her professional practices over the years, she merely responded with a simple _I’m okay_. With that, she could also easily deduce the physiological reactions of her current situation when being asked – unstoppable nausea, morning sickness, fatigue, dizziness, loss of appetite, sore breast – as though she was professionally presenting a diagnosis report. Ever since she learnt about that shocking news, all these symptoms had nailed her like the tsunami as if they could finally wave her all over and make her drown. Then, it was about _the baby's father_. She stilled, but quickly composed herself as usual. As she didn’t even acknowledge there was a baby growing inside her before that, she told Adrienne about her current relationship status, and thus there was _no longer the baby's father_. Luckily, Adrienne regarded the information in full understanding and non-judgemental basis, which as well much to her relief.

The midwife eventually pulled out something from a stack of paper that she had brought in, a brand-new booklet in green spread strikingly on the surface between them. Jean had a peculiar sense of familiarity with it – the pregnancy notes by the NHS, the recognition of an expectant mother. It was that moment all of these made her overwhelmed, even more, suffocated. Immediately, she decided to put an end to this booking appointment. Cursing herself mentally, she shouldn’t even come here in the first place. 

“In fact, um, I don’t mean to waste your time, Adrienne. And I certainly don’t intend to waste any medical resource of our country…” there, she gave, words formulated in a cautious but decisively manner. “I don’t think I wish to continue this pregnancy.” 

Dropping her ball pen gently at the side of the pregnancy notes, Adrienne was just about to request her to fill in the booklet. She raised her eyes in concerns. “May I know the reasons?”

The reasons were just as simple as…things that shouldn’t even happen, as their existences should never mean there.

Damned her knowledge received from prestigious education and years of practical experience, how could she be so naïve to the possibility that was measured in the first place? All contraception methods weren’t 100% reliable, not to mention conception later in life wasn’t improbable at all given her age. Though she could reasonably hypothesise hundred other reasons that weren’t really approving about why and how she and Jakob had produced a new life unexpectedly, she swore she never meant to hit that 0.01% of possibility. Although she did hit it eventually, damn it, _it_ was solely a fertilised egg that divided into multicellular trouble instead of a 0.01% miracle by its actual meaning.

 _You’re not ready for the kind of intimacy I’m looking for_. 

As his voice still echoed from the depth of her soul, as his words still bounced back from her heart that was caged in walls. He made it clear, he had never made it so clear; which caught her off-guard, caused her nothing but pain. It was painful for being seen through by someone who she thought she could always shade him from the truth; it was more painful for being rejected by someone she genuinely fell for as she was the one who used to reject others. With all those guiltiness and disgrace, she couldn’t even persuade herself from seeing him again. Let alone from bringing herself to tell him that he was still a fertile man, that she was pregnant with his child; or telling him that she might keep this baby, then claiming it boldly that she would raise their child as a single mother she used to be if he chose not to be the father. But the main point was: she doubted if he would hate her even more, if she – a woman who wasn’t worthy of his love – decided to carry and raise his child that he didn’t even intend to love. 

And she was in her fucking mid 40’s!

Though she could surpass the statistics for conceiving naturally at her age – while she was perimenopausal, plus the man she was sleeping with had a vasectomy – she definitely couldn’t defeat the impacts of her age. She was too old to carry a child again. She was too old to go through the hardship of parenting all over alone – of course – again. She couldn’t forgive herself if she ever brought this child any health complication due to her fucking advanced maternal age! And she was never particularly fond of children. When her marriage with Remi was still solidified by the ink that dried on paper, he hinted more than once he wanted another child. _“I want a daughter, Jeanie,”_ there was once he said it purposely, kissing her inner thigh. _“You’ve got Otis. I want a daughter, a mini me.”_ And she stopped him, tilting her head towards the bedside drawer where they had stored the condoms, retorted, _“It was more than enough to have only Otis.”_

Otis, of course, _Otis_.

Who else on earth would ever want a little sibling after being the only child for seventeen years? It’s either they were away with the fairies, or they must be super fancy of reading fairy tales to those tiny humans. And Otis was definitely not from either category. No doubt, it happened to almost all children; when Otis was still little, he would ask her occasionally why he had no brother or sister like his classmates, why there were only two of them in this house to hang around, laugh around, play around? Then she would tell him because he was the only one she wanted; and because _a baby is produced when a man and a woman have sex, and they love each other_ , but she didn’t love a man, so there was no baby. Over the years she could see his content, it was _enough_ , enough for a home to be only two of them, and soon he had Eric to fill in his life as his best friend, as his brother without kinship. And now he was becoming a young man who desperately set a boat off the sheltered harbour (in human language: Jean herself) to enfold the roaring ocean in the breeze. She couldn’t let go just yet, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to approach him, chase him, follow him as if he was so far from her, far enough that a room of only two of them wasn’t even sufficient for his independence anymore. Let alone a room of three – a baby on board? 

“Take a deep breath, Jean,” by the time a pat from the back pulled her back to the surface, she opened her eyes, a warm smile beamed across Adrienne’s face. 

The midwife placed a tissue box in front of her. Only then she realised she was crying. 

“I understand your situation, it’s complicated,” Adrienne gave a wry smile while sitting down behind the desk. “Do you want to talk to a pregnancy counsellor?” 

“Thank you for that,” she rejected, voice raspy and hasty. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“Yeah, I got it. Considering the nature of your occupation, I’m sure you’re quite certain about what you’re facing right now.”

 _How ironic is that_ , she thought, recalling the story of kidney infection that her GP had ever told her. She pulled a piece of tissue out of the box and wiped away all her tears. No more evidence of an overt loss of control.

“Have you considered giving up your baby for adoption?”

“No, not at all,” adoption simply meant carrying her pregnancy to term if she was lucky enough to bypass any issue that could result in a miscarriage. While carrying her pregnancy to term meant that she had to tell Otis, at least, which she didn’t even want to. “I can’t carry a child now.”

“Mhm…” the midwife nodded. “Well, all I heard about now is you can’t do this,” she then asked carefully as she considered all her words. “But do you _want_ to do this, Jean?”

Her question startled her. “What?”

“You seem to care about people so much. You care about the baby’s father, your son, things that might happen to the baby due to your age…and it’s clear that you want the best for each of them,” she gave gently. “What if, this time, the only person that you need to care about is yourself. Do you ever consider having this baby?”

“I –” surprisingly, she hesitated. Dr Jean Milburn would never hesitate. “I…” 

“Well, you don’t have to answer me right now. It’s a question that you need some time to re-think about… _properly_ ,” observing her reaction, the midwife stated softly yet giving an emphasise. “If we make it right, you’re probably 10 weeks along now. Why not we give it a week or so? For the dating scan.”

“Dating scan?”

“Yeah, the 12-week dating scan. We can get an exact idea of how far along your pregnancy is and check your baby’s development. If you agreed, a screening test for chromosomal abnormalities is offered to your pregnancy too,” Adrienne advised with much sympathy but professionally. “Although abortion is safer the earlier it’s carried out, but these results of your baby’s condition can help you to consider. Might as well allow you to have more time to decide.” 

Wasn’t the past two weeks enough for her to think, to consider and to decide? No, she didn’t need thinking, consideration and decision because she didn’t want to decide on her own. If she did, she knew there was only one choice.

“If you still decided to have an abortion even though the results came out perfectly fine, it’s still your rights. I’d want you to know that we would fully respect you on that basis,” the midwife gave her a soft smile, stated in a confidence and supportive manner. “And we’d like to help you, Jean.”

Somehow, tears filled her eyes again, but she held it back and gave a nod.

So, her booking appointment ended up lasting for solid two hours. They went through a typical range of measurements and tests – the BMI calculation (“Jean, I think you need to put on a stone or two,” Adrienne frowned when looking at the figure), blood pressure measurement and urine test for signs of pre-eclampsia, and of course, the blood tests, where she looked away as usual. She had to fill in her main details in the pregnancy notes as well. _Next of Kin?_ Otis Milburn. _Emergency Contact?_ She considered, for a moment, Otis Milburn. _Relationship Status?_ Divorced. _Partner’s Details?_ All columns in this section remained blanks, an “X” remarked at the small box there. And yes, she got a full-time career which basically talked about sex, but most of the times it could be really stressful. She owned a house; she lived with her only son, who was soon to be seventeen. No, she wasn’t a smoker, not a drug user, only an occasional alcoholic. She had no physical and mental health issues, definitely no domestic abuse. She had no support from her partner or family or friends…and she thought of this social assessment that had already inferred why she wasn’t suitable to be a mother again. 

Adrienne then booked her in for the dating scan one week later, where she needed to do it at the local hospital that she had registered for the midwifery service. She nodded. Adrienne also reminded her about free prescriptions and free dental cares and all other benefits that she could get as an expectant mother, if only she decided to continue this pregnancy. She nodded again, with thanks. 

“Jean,” right before the end of the appointment, Adrienne stopped her. “You know…whether or not to continue this pregnancy, it’s all your own choice, right?” 

Breaking the gaze, she nodded with a fake smile. “Yes, I know.”

In the end, she departed the GP with a purple and white striped bounty pack that kept her pregnancy notes, a small packet of _Pregnacare_ , a book with its tell-tale title “ _You and Your Pregnancy_ ” that scared her so much, and a pile of literature and leaflets that she probably wouldn’t read about at all. Pulling out from the car park, she turned the volume of the radio up to the maximum that might blow out her eardrums. It was playing some untimely punk rock that she couldn’t recognise, and she needed something loud enough to block her mind.

They all went wrong, too wrong from their literal meanings. She wasn’t intended to go to the GP for the booking appointment, she was supposed to end it all! She would go to any abortion provider or sexual health clinic that she could find on the way back home and book herself an appointment right on the spot. She would keep these massive, overwhelmed papers she got from the midwife at the bottom of the drawer beside her desk that was labelled with “less important” until she finally forgot. She would miss the dating scan appointment with her hectic schedules at work and already miserable life and didn’t need to care about it at all.

She would forget about _it_ , forget about him, forget about them…

But when she finally pulled into her parking space under the old oak tree in front of her house, she breathed hastily, one hand grasped the key to turn off the engine mechanically, another hand still rested at the steering wheel trembling. For a moment, she wondered if all these were real. She lowered her eyes to her lower abdomen. There was a little bump announcing the presence, _it_ was real. Though she wouldn’t want to admit it, she started to show already, all her jumpsuits would soon be unable to do her favour.

She knew she couldn’t get over the fact that she wasn’t worthy of being loved, so she wasn’t worthy of loving others, not even the child he gave her. She couldn’t live the rest of her life as if nothing had ever happened, because _it_ did happen. She couldn’t forgive herself for rejecting him once, then twice, then _thrice_ – because deep down, her heart ached, it was the last piece she ever had from him.

For he was willing to call her out with those simple words lingered in his tender tone that carried the unbearable trueness, she knew she had already lost the last chance from him. For she couldn’t decide, properly decide, as her only choice would be getting rid of it as she had so many reasons ahead to not want it. She just gazed at it quietly, almost blankly. Repressed the urge of stroking it, she didn’t allow herself to do so as if she was tainting something sacred. How could she even touch it if she wasn’t going to love it? 

“Whether you love me or hate me or don’t even know me yet, please don’t make me decide. Because I can’t,” every word that was disassembled with pain and ruthlessness was constructed into a cracked, pale murmur. “So, if you…if you ever leave me, it's okay, it’s fine. I won't mind at all.”

But then, here was the truth that had written in her eyes. Tears stung there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for reading again!  
> -  
> This chapter is basically talking about the dilemma of Jean, and I struggled to be writing it. Though I think Jean wouldn't be someone that has difficulty in decision-making, but after witnessing how she dealt with her own relationship stuff, I think the dilemma could be the thing she would face at the moment. She is human, thus she has things to be struggled with too.  
> -  
> Let me know your idea/suggestion/feedback? Thanks!


	3. Paralyzed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by [" _Paralyzed_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHhHUZsXTBk) by NF

She had thrown up for the third time within eight hours. It wasn’t a good omen.

The first time it happened, it dragged her out from slumber and clutching at the toilet for vomiting at 6 am; the second time, she bolted to the sink and vomited after hurriedly kissed Otis goodbye and wished him a very happy birthday before school; and now – the third time – she offered her half-digested lunch to the nearest bushes she could find, crouching down and retching, not even make it in time to turn off the engine of her estate car. She had a hunch, strongly, that she might go through this exasperating cycle of nauseous and vomiting until she finally gave birth – of course, if only that little one would settle in her uterus until that time.

She raised her head and breathed in some fresh air. The air was soothing, with a tang of woods and spring rain in it that ran through her lungs. _Petrichor_ , she could think of the word, the word he once whispered into her bare skin in a gloomy morning after rain. A rare word, she doubted why he knew, so she asked. He said his late wife taught him that, because she was a language teacher, because he liked that scent. And she stared at the name that was inserted at his left chest, _Maria_ , where his heart palpitated, she asked what else his wife had taught him. And he said only one word: _love_.

Palming against her bent knees to support herself, she stood up slowly and staggered on her numbed legs and vertigo and tried her best not to fall. When she finally walked towards the open door of her car, she reached out the keys and turned off the engine. Then, she bent over and retrieved a bottle of water from her handbag in the front seat. Unscrewed the bottle cap, rinsed her mouth twice, took another sip of water, then screwed on the cap. After clamping the bottle in her left arm and making sure there was no vomit on her floral print swing coat, she let out a deep sigh.

Almost forty minutes’ drive away from her house, it was the community hospital she had registered for the midwifery service where she would also need to attend the dating scan as scheduled…and she went there this morning, finally. 

Well, it _really_ wasn’t a good omen.

She ended up parking at a supermarket that was a stone’s throw from the hospital because she couldn’t find an available space at the hospital’s car park even though it was early, and it was a Wednesday (early time and a weekday weren’t the real factors, but she still thought that anyway). She was drinking too much water for a “full bladder” than it was actually required for a clearer scan. She was the only expectant mother at the pregnancy scanning department waiting area without the presence of a partner or a companion. And, apparently, she was the oldest among all, and she didn’t look pregnant due to the disguisable clothing that she purposely put on, to a point she thought people might start wondering if she was going to the wrong place as the antenatal clinics and the gynaecology department shared the same floor. She waited for more than thirty minutes because it was only one pregnancy scan room that functioned at the time. 

Then the sonographer – a very good-looking middle-aged man that looked a bit like David Duchovny and had this black-framed glasses like hers – was flirting non-stop with her. If she wasn’t in extreme nervousness, she might as well entertain him, or ask him out for a coffee after work, or even invite him over because _there is a great view of the River Wye from the terrace of my house…and also from the window of my room_ ; but it just wasn’t the timing, and she wasn’t the same anymore. Later there was this midwife who sweetly addressed her as “mummy” that assisted her to lie down on the examination table. _“Wow, you've started showing already, haven’t you?”_ tucking the tissue papers around her blouse and trousers, the midwife was clearly in a surprise state to her actual body shape. _“It’s usual for pregnancies after the first showing sooner. Maybe it’s time for some new clothing?”_ she then rubbed the gel on Jean’s protruding belly. If she wanted to be honest, she couldn’t really take the midwife’s words at peace. 

And when she finally saw that little one on-screen – in white and grey noises there was a clear outline of it, small head small hands small legs and a little bulging body, along with the heartbeats that were as strong as the steam trains moving across the Scottish valley, as she used to make a “choo-choo” sound to Otis when he was still a baby – both her heart and tears burst at the same time. Her chest felt so tight, she could hardly breathe, tears escaped her eyes silently. She locked her sight on the greyish screen, as her heart was in thousands of broken pieces. As it was yet to be healed, and it would never be healed. The sonographer congratulated her at the end, said, _“Pretty good of the measurements and indexes, crown-rump length, NT measurement all that…very well development of the baby. The placenta is doing well too. I can foresee a strong baby in there already,”_ and then he asked, _“I guess you want the picture of the baby?”_

She then sat down in a consultation room in a kind of trance, grasping the freshly printed ultrasound image, overwhelmed by the surreal image that burnt into her mind. The typical “hey”, “hi”, “how are you” was being asked again, the routine tests were being run again, the blood was being drawn again as to work out with the ultrasound scan for the chromosomal abnormalities. She was told that if the screening tests returned with a higher-chance result, she would be informed in three working days, but she shouldn’t be worried about that. She was told she had anaemia based on the result of her blood test at the booking appointment, so iron tablets were prescribed. She was told her working patterns should be adjusted to suit an expectant working mother-friendly lifestyle. She didn’t really listen to all of these; it was too difficult to pay attention at the time. But still, it all made her too anxious to eat, too numb to eat, so she had a plain croissant and a hot tea for lunch from Costa Coffee on the ground floor and walked out the hospital main entrance in the drizzle. She made it anyway, even stopped by at Effiong’s so she could collect the birthday cake they ordered from Eric’s mother, only to vomit her pity little lunch to the bushes when she arrived home.

When she looked down again, it was still there. _The baby_ was there. 11 weeks and 5 days along, she had two more days to reach the 12-week threshold. And if nothing happened to her and the baby, she would be due in mid-October. And her eldest son just turned 17 years old today. How could she see this as a good omen?

She held all the things, locked the car. She passed through the gate, walked down the stone stairway. She thrust the key into the keyhole, unlocked the door. She walked through the hallway, sat on the couch, sinking in thoughts. 

She was terrified from the inside out. Completely terrified.

She was terrified by the fact that she needed to be strong, and she must be strong, strong as a woman to herself and as a mother to Otis because she was all alone. And she chose to be alone, she wanted to be alone. So, no one would ever know how vulnerable she was. No one would be able to hurt her again when she gave in. No one would ever break her heart because she was independent, she was capable, she was fearless…

Until this little one made the whole heartbreak thing so much more complicated.

She had cried a lot these days, mostly weeping in the dark, sometimes sobbing in the bath, she didn’t like that. She hated herself for being vulnerable and fragile more than ever, she hated the sense of losing control. But she was, and she still did. All because its presence clearly told her that she wasn’t strong at all, that she had allowed herself to agree for it to reside inside her one more day then one more day, that her desire to want Jakob back grew more real, more intense and more despair. 

She wanted him so much. Much more than she perhaps realised. 

She had allowed a man – a truly good man – to set himself into her life. She didn’t appreciate his tenderness and love in time but was blindfolded by the inability to recognise. It shouldn’t be an excuse after all. She wasn’t ready for a relationship, she should tell him first; she was so vulnerable, so fragile but too afraid to admit, she should let him know. If she was a little brave enough, she should ask him again if he was willing to give her one last chance. Just one last chance.

But this time, at this moment, things were so much different. She was pregnant. Inside her uterus was his child, fought against all odds, still small but healthy and strong. And somehow, in those greyish noises that the baby’s outline was shaped, where a glimmer of hope had leaked through, much to her surprise and frightened her at the same time – she could have it as her child, or even more, as _their_ child. But then again, her fantasies of having a child again were always associated with him yet defeated by his presence. She wanted Jakob, but she wouldn’t want him to love her out of obligation; she might want their child, but she wasn’t sure if he wanted any more child, or else he wouldn’t have the vasectomy after all. 

Perhaps before telling Jakob, she should worry about Otis first. 

When Otis announced he was home, she was upstairs, in her room, lying on bed because she was too tired. He knocked her door before entering her room, climbed on the edge of the bed as she turned over and greeted him.

“Not feeling well, Mum?” 

“Just taking a nap,” she simply gave.

“Taking a nap is so not your style, Dr Milburn,” he commented. “No client today?”

“I’m taking a day off for my kids,” in which, it wasn’t wrong, she was indeed taking a day off for her kids – wait a minute, _kids_? 

“I’m flattered, in a good way,” he grimaced. He didn’t catch her words, but it still made her anxious somehow. “Any idea for dinner? Thai? Chinese? Pizza?”

Food wasn’t very appealing at the moment, so she closed her eyes and murmured. “You’re the birthday boy, you’ll pick.”

“Japanese, then? For days I’m just so longing for salmon sushi –”

“No sushi!” suddenly, she shouted. She opened her eyes widely, only to find her son staring at her with shock. Her cheeks felt hot as embarrassment now washed all her unpleasant sensation away. “I mean, no sushi for me,” she tried to make herself sound neutral and less neurotic. “I think I’d like ramen. A hot soup would be nice to such weather.”

“…shiro hanjuku and pork broth ramen as usual?” 

They used to order takeaway from the Japanese restaurant in town. Otis could memorise all its menu in a way better than the periodic table. He liked Japanese cuisine, she liked it too. If they were ever given a chance, they would’ve rated it a Michelin 3-star. 

“Sounds wonderful,” she said. 

“Well, I’ll place the order then. Let’s have it delivered at dinner time,” he bounced from her bed, ready to leave. “And I’ll pay, it’s my birthday and you already paid for the cake, so it’s my treat for the rest.” 

“Thank you, darling,” a relief, Otis didn’t question her sudden awkwardness just now.

He paused, turned over and tilting his head. “Mum?”

“Hm?”

“Really, if you’re not feeling well, just take a nap,” Otis added, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll wake you up when the food is delivered.”

Nevertheless, she made herself up before Otis was supposed to wake her up. In fact, it was that little one in her uterus that deprived her rest. Her stomach growled and she was hungry, she needed to feed both herself and that little one since there was nothing much left in her stomach to make it satisfy. Otis was setting the table when she made her way to the kitchen, two bags of takeaway placed on the kitchen counter.

She wanted Otis to be loved and humble, so there was never a big and flashy themed birthday party for her son ever since she became his primary carer. Remi would’ve acted differently, he would throw his son the best, the most magnificent, the most impressive birthday party so that he could be the centre of the spotlight, underline his palpable materialistic and narcissistic personality and win his son’s heart as complimentary. A year before they divorced, as part of his snobbish mother’s insistence, Remi was throwing a grand celebration for Otis’ birthday at his family country house in Worcestershire. In the garden with a big white tent, the sun never set, ladies in fancy hats with tea and chats, gentlemen in a morning dress with wine and brags. Jean thought it was the Milburn family-kind-of- _the Queen’s Garden Party_ instead of her own son’s birthday party, flaunty and hypocritical enough to which she still despised up until today. Therefore – no balloons, no mascots, no full house of her son’s classmates whose names she couldn’t even remember – only Otis and her, a nice dinner and a chocolate cake from Eric’s mother which they both beloved, followed by a birthday song that was usually speedy because when Otis was getting older, he felt so awkward that he had to sing to himself…all in all, just some simple rituals for a birthday celebration. Exclusively simple, sweet and warm – one just for the family.

“Mmm…” she stopped at the counter, sniffed satisfyingly. At least food was appealing at this moment instead of making her nauseous.

“You up?” Otis turned to her, grinning. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

She carried the takeaway to the table, took them out one by one. There were appetisers and tofu salad, Otis ordered himself a set of chicken teriyaki don, along with other sushi and agemono that were in five small packs. She removed the lids of the containers, placed them nicely on the table. Her pork broth ramen had been packed separately, one container with soup and other with ramen and dry seaweed. She took the ceramic bowl from Otis – one with blue and white waves in the inner wall that she bought online from a Japanese store – pouring the ramen into the bowl, followed by the soup, then stirred, and placed it into the microwave. Started off the heating for two minutes, on high. She liked the food that was served hot. If she wasn’t too nauseous after the meal, she would like to have chawanmushi as well. 

“So, what did you do in the morning?” in the middle of having their so-called luxurious and super satisfying birthday dinner, Otis asked. “Seems like you have a lot of spare time since it’s a day off.”

“Not really,” she wasn’t going to tell the truth, not just yet. “I was doing household chores and reviewing papers. You know, just all the regular stuff.”

“Mhm, so, not so free then?”

“Darling, taking a day off from my work doesn’t necessarily mean I’m free,” she gave him a look while drinking a spoonful of soup. “Apart from my career, pursuing a fine balance between different roles in my life is essential. And it is healthy.”

“By the way, are you ill or something?”

“Huh? Why ask so?”

“Thought you weren’t feeling well lately,” he explained. Dipping the sushi in wasabi with chopsticks at ease, his brow furrowed with light concerns. “You were sick in the bathroom the other day, weren’t you? I heard it when I passed by.”

She almost choked.

“Well, yes, I’m probably coming down with something I think,” she admitted carefully, half of the truth, half of the lies. “But I can assure you there’s nothing you should worry about.”

“Are you sure?”

 _Withholding of information is not technically a lie_ , he said. “Absolutely sure,” so she gave. 

Luckily, he grimaced and took it. There was silence for a while. She was pondering if she could be honest to Otis as she wanted him to be honest with her. 

“Otis, darling, let’s talk about you and me.” 

“Does something really happen?” he froze straight off as if he sensed something dangerous. “You’re giving a signal that might indicate circumstances which I should be properly worried about.”

“No, no, just something casual,” raising her brow, she tried to sound as casual as she could. “Something about…mother and son, maybe?”

“Whoakay then,” he nodded carefully, bringing up his right hand as a sign to proceed. “Please go ahead.” 

“Have you ever been feeling lonely…because there were only two of us?” 

“Um…have you?”

“I’m asking you, darling.” 

“Well, I’m asking you because you’re the answer, Mum.” 

“Elaboration, please.” 

Quite frankly, he said with a little smile, “Yes, sometimes I did feel lonely, but sometimes I didn’t. Because I have you, and because I have _only_ you.” 

And she smiled when she saw him. Remi always mumbled that she got Otis, he resembled her, the mini her. And she could see herself from his smile and his eyes.

“Because I have you and only you, too,” she stated softly. “Indeed, I felt the same.” 

Once in a late afternoon, she and Jakob were immersed in a room of golden shines, where his big blue eyes were as bright as those sun shines. And he smiled, in a way too soft, too warm that could melt her straight away. He told her he loved his then-angels and now-evil-daughters; he told her they could never let their children know how much they had made them feel lonely. 

“But are you okay with that?” she asked. “Not feeling the lack of someone significant in life?”

“You mean Dad?”

“Could be,” she gave. “Or any additional member to the family…hypothetically.”

“Well, if it’s Dad…I don’t know,” leaning backwards, he shrugged. “How could I not be okay if this is what life wanted me to be okay?”

“It is okay to not be okay, darling. It is perfectly normal if you ever feel that way in any stage of your life.”

“Are you referring to Netflix?” he laughed. 

“What?” she widened her eyes, confused. “Of course not! I don’t even know what Netflix is. A song thing?”

“It’s a TV thing,” he gave, keeping his laughter slowly. “If I’m allowed to _not be okay_ , I rather opt for a complete family which I know it’s impossible given the circumstance now, just so let you know.” 

She pulled a face to that statement, and he continued, “But perhaps, a _big_ one. At least it wouldn’t feel that empty if someone wasn’t around. Although I’d say being the only child could be the best because it is what it is. But…I don’t know? Somehow seeing Eric has a big bunch of sisters is quite funny though.”

And she blinked in astonishment. 

Upstairs, in her room, inside her dark sienna handbag there was the bounty pack, the ultrasound printout put between the pages of her pregnancy notes. Her son, her sweetest Otis, he turned 17 today. Could she tell him she might give him a half-sibling even though it sounded ridiculous?

“And, uh, I still didn’t get a call from Dad, not even a text,” he lowered his eyes, now dipping his chopsticks in his bowl playfully, a gleam of disappointment slipped into the thin air. “He used to be the first to wish me a happy birthday. Even when he’s in the US, there’s a time difference all that.”

“Darling…”

“So, Mum, I just wanted to say…I’m sorry, and thank you,” glancing up, he looked into her eyes. His eyes were as clear as hers. “Sorry for letting you down most of the time, and making you feel lonely. But, thank you for being with me all these years when Dad isn’t around. You love me, you take care of me…even when you care about me _too much_ sometimes,” he smirked. “To be honest, I’m still grateful for that.”

And now, she couldn’t help herself to wonder. 

One day, could this little one inside her turn 17, just like Otis did? Then it would as well thank her on one of its many birthdays that they celebrate together – grateful for her to love it, to take care of it, even though all the blood, sweat and tears in the parent-child relationship was always inevitable? And one day, when this little one shouted “Daddy” and “Mummy”, could it be Jakob and her who responded to the calling? It would resemble his eyes that were bluish as the colour of the cloudless sky, and his dimples that were gentle like the wind whispered in the autumn night; it would have her smile, of course, a little bit naughty, a little bit charming, she _wanted_ it to have her smile.

“Oh, Otis, you’re not making me cry,” and tears already filled her eyes. “You’re not making me cry.” 

Then Otis started chuckling, she wiped away those tears that were flowing. A little bit of moisture between fingers that soon evaporated. First time in weeks they were tears formed from happiness, not anxiety that throbbed her through the days, not sorrow that wrapped her in darkness. Her chests were now full of helium, she might float through the air.

And pork broth made her stomach settle, hot soup was indeed so nice to such weather. She ate some of the appetisers that Otis ordered because he couldn’t finish them alone but refused to take sushi with salmon as she wasn’t sure if it was safe to eat. Somehow, she wouldn’t want to take risks now. 

When they cleaned the table to make space for the birthday cake, as she watched Otis counting the number of the candles, she thought she might cry again. A single layer cake, chocolate cream sprinkled with cocoa powder, embellished with cut gold leaf, on top of it there was a white chocolate chip written in _Happy 17th Birthday, Otis!_ It was simple and delicate. Eric’s mother is a dedicated housewife, she cooks the best and bakes the best. Jean was never ashamed of obtaining free meals and desserts from the friendship between two boys over the years. A speedy birthday song was sung again, she couldn’t catch his pace, but she didn’t care. Then Otis closed his eyes, making wishes; then opened his eyes, blowing off the candles. He cut her the first slice of cake; it was their tradition – always cut the first slice of cake to the one you love.

Having her son’s first slice of 17th birthday cake was weird, watching her own son become a young man was weird. This weirdness wasn’t overwhelmed but resembled the bittersweet of a parent – her child had grown, her hardships would be paid off; but she would miss the days when he was still little, sweet and lovely and a little bit helpless, liked her cuddles in the storming nights, liked her kisses when he was doing things right. And the returning feeling of nauseous when she took the first bite of the chocolate cake reminded her of all of these. She knew she could do it again. She _would_ do it again.

“Mum, any birthday present for the birthday boy?” Otis joked when she put down her only few bites of cake.

It was their tradition again – no presents during birthdays. She didn’t want him to demand just because it’s his special day. Every day should be a special day, and the demand would be fulfilled once the effort had been paid. But she did buy him a birthday present for his 15th birthday though, a new bicycle, as he stood his ground that he didn’t want her to do the school run anymore.

“As a matter of fact,” she simpered as she lifted herself from the table. “I do have a present for you.”

She made her way to the office, not taking long, and returned with a pile of notes. They were Otis’ profits from his operation of the underground sex clinic that had been confiscated by her ever since she learnt about it. 

“I’ll have to admit that I didn’t bother to wrap it with any nice paper,” she said sarcastically when she handed it to Otis. “As it’s so remarkable already. What an impressive amount!”

He grasped the notes, moving it back and forth between his palms, giggling. “Thought you’ve used it to pay for the house cleaning.” 

“I didn’t,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “You said you wanted to make an amendment. Are you going to return the money to all those students?”

“Um, I can’t…it’s a bit complicated here,” he hesitated at first but decided to elaborate. “In fact, I wasn’t the only one that was involved in operating the clinic. I got people with me, we split the earnings, it’s impossible to make the refunds now.”

She frowned. “Otis, I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Well, she’s my business partner, sort of. She –”

“It’s a SHE?!”

“Mum! I can hear your thinking, and I strongly suggest you put them aside!” Otis raised his hands immediately, gestured them in a cross as if he was trying to cast out all the devils. “This girl – she scheduled the appointments; I gave the advice. We were business partners, and we were business partners ONLY. Don’t look at me like that, Dr Jean Francis Milburn, because your son isn’t your client, he certainly doesn’t need to be analysed. Thank you very much!”

“Well…questions?”

“Yes, please.”

“Do I know her?”

“Don’t think so.”

“May I know her name?”

“I have to protect her privacy. So, no.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Are you sure she isn’t your past or current or potential love interest?”

“FOR GOD’S SAKE, MUM!!!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” though the current prospect had her a little bit amused, she understood playing along with Otis wasn’t a good idea now. “Then what are you going to do with the money, Mr Otis Milburn?” 

“Actually, I kind of came across a good idea,” he said, still scanning her carefully as to ensure she wouldn’t bring up _that subject_ again. “I’m going to donate the money to our school foundation by the name of the students.” 

“Mhm,” she nodded. “It seems to be a good idea indeed. I agree with that,” she then glanced up at her son, trying to remind him. “And you shouldn’t be proud that there wasn’t a disciplinary procedure taken on you at school, darling. It shouldn’t be treated as a fluke, even though it was.”

“Yeah, I understand. If it wasn’t Mr Groff had been putting on leave, I wouldn’t be so easy right now.”

“I’m glad you know that. Taking responsibility for your own action,” she nodded again as she watched him cutting himself another slice of cake. “17 years old isn’t that worse, is it?”

“Speaking of which…” Otis paused for a moment, not gazing at her. “How’s your work, Mum? I mean after t-the –”

“Well, clients come as usual. If this is what you’re asking,” she gave him a wry smile, light enough to be believed that she was good. “I’m certain some of them might hear a thing or two, but no significant cutting of appointments from the clients because of this,” she grimaced. “And except for banning from your school campus and some gossips that are lingering around, I think I’m just fine.” 

“If you ever know the person who had your notebook taken…or exposed…” Otis asked carefully. “What would you do?”

“Frankly, I haven’t really thought about this before,” so she thought for a while. She wondered how she would have misplaced her notebook, for she was always so careful when it came to her profession. She wondered why someone who collected her notebook would choose to reveal the contents instead of giving it back to her. She wondered. “I guess I’d like to know why, about the motives behind it.”

Then a momentary silence sat with them at the table. Otis was clearly not in a mood of indulging his cake anymore, as he used his fork to brush the cream off to the side of his plate but not consuming it. And so she was. Usually, she had no immune from any dessert that came with chocolate, especially dark chocolate, but today the mixture of creamy sensation and rich chocolate was evil. It was too much for her. She hadn’t thought this pregnancy would change her appetite that much. Though she had a hot broth that settled her stomach a bit, as her nauseous worsened, she wouldn’t want to rest at the side of the toilet tonight. 

Announcing that she couldn’t take a more bite from her slice of cake and intended to leave, Otis raised his right hand as a sign to ask her to stop. 

“Darling,” she said, her gestures still froze in the air. “Anything?”

“Mum, please sit down.”

“Okay,” she followed. By looking at her son’s expression, she could tell exactly he had something to talk about but didn’t know how. Observation wasn’t difficult at all. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” so, she made the offer.

He nodded hardly. Every single line of his face was tensed.

“You know the principles,” she then encouraged. “This is a safe space for you to share whatever you wanted to share. No judgement, no forceful comment. And if you need some time, I got the whole night. I’ll be here for you, darling,” she added. “Always.”

He took a deep breath, a too-deep-deep breath. “Mum, first of all…I’d like to apologise. I’m so, so sorry,” and he looked like he was about to set off a global panic. “And please, promise me you will remain calm for the rest of the conversation.”

“Wait, don’t you want to tell me…” she gasped. A sudden panic cut through her. “You knocked up the girl you had sex with at the party night?”

“WHAT?!” his voice broke. “No, Mum, absolutely not! That’s impossible!” 

“Well then?”

Eyes were closed, hands were clenched in fists, eventually, he spat out. “I TOOK YOUR NOTEBOOK!”

Within seconds, her horror turned into disbelief. At 7.48 pm on the day of Otis’ 17th birthday, his words made her parted lips freeze. She looked at her son, startled, and there seemed to be an inexplicable buzzing sound that was echoing in her ears.

“Otis,” she tried to regain her composure. “What are you talking about?”

“I-I was the one who took your notebook out of your handbag…” in a cracked voice, he opened his eyes slowly, forcing himself to look into her eyes. “And…I took it out of the history classroom.”

She furrowed her brow, heart racing to its maximum. “…why?” 

Her stomach squeezed; her hands shook. She wondered why. She wondered why _it was Otis_. 

“Because I saw you were meeting Ola…” somehow, his eyes weren’t as clear as before. “I didn’t want Ola to talk about things between us, I didn’t want you to know about my things. So, I –”

“So, you stole my notebook…” she continued. “And disclosed it?”

“No! I definitely _did not_ disclose it! I’ve put it into my locker right after I took it out!” his body went stiff as he tried desperately to speak, but his voice was now shivering, his explanation now seemed so pale. “I swear to God, Mum, I have no any idea why it would be missing. And then-then it being photocopied and…”

“Does anyone have your key?”

“No, no one would have my key. I’m quite certain about that. There’re only two duplicates, one with the students, the other spare key kept in the Student Affairs Office.”

 _Student Affairs Office_. She had a name from the Student Affairs Office. But it didn’t matter anymore.

“You _stole_ my notebook, then someone took it from your locker, and had it exposed. There were almost hundreds of private notes, they were all highly confidential. You did it, just because you didn’t want me to know about your things?” she rephrased, reorganised, then realised. She realised something was missing in her life. “Otis, did you aware…what have you done?” 

“I’m aware, and I’m sorry, Mum,” gazing up, his face reddened as he was so regretful. “I’m really sorry about that! I’ll take ownership of my own action.” 

“How?” she breathed hastily. Fresh tears formed in her eyes again; she could even feel the overwhelming warmness. “If someone files me a complaint to the COSRT for violating the Code of Ethics and Practice because of this, when they hold me on a disciplinary conduct procedure, should I tell the Professional Conduct Panel it wasn’t my misconduct at all, it was my son who stole my notebook, and he said he would take the ownership of his action?”

“If there is necessary,” he replied blankly. “I will admit to the Panel.”

If there hadn’t been her own son, she would’ve laughed. She was sure she would’ve laughed. Laughing because of this clueless boy, laughing because of how disappointed his parents would be!

“You did not know what you had done, Otis,” she claimed loudly, loud enough that she could recall how failed she was as a parent. “You did not understand the severity of your actions. And, certainly, you could not bear all the consequences. Because you DID NOT AWARE at all!” 

He almost cried but held it tight and stated in despair. “Mum, of course I’m aware! I’m 17! I’ll take responsibilities!” 

She glanced up at Otis quietly, solemnly. He wasn’t the stranger this time, he was her son. Her own son. Her flesh and blood. He had torn her apart inside out, ripped her out from all her beliefs. Although alone, she could be a good mother, she could be a good carer. She thought she could raise a child again. She thought nothing could hurt her anymore. 

“Right, you want to take the responsibilities, huh?” brushing away those tears that might stream down again, she refused to cry in front of her son. “Fine! Now I shall make a police report on my own son for being convicted of theft, obstruction of work rights and breach of confidentiality. Would you be able to take these accusations? Or I shall ask you to stay away from my workplace or even move out of this house because I can’t see you, and I certainly could no longer trust you! Would you be able to bear these consequences?”

It was that moment she realised something missing in her life was, in fact, nothing that had left. Nothing! It was also that moment he burst into tears, finally understood how wrong his own actions were. No word could ever leave his lips that he was pursed so tight. All his muscles tensed, he covered his reddened face with his hands, but the tears were just out of control. 

“Otis, responsibility is not the willingness to admit, to bear and to correct the mistakes,” she muttered seriously. “It’s about being aware of all the consequences from the series of your action, and you have to possess the ability to carry them all and make the redemption. If you’re unable to bear the consequences of your actions, or if it causes irredeemable loss, you shouldn’t even start making this mistake at all. This is what we called ‘responsibility’.”

It was even more suffocating to see her own son broke down as if he was going to have another panic attack. Her head was throbbing, her chests were tightening, a dull ache suddenly emerged, dashing across her lower abdomen. Every single cell in her body strained against the alarming emotional turmoil that was now swallowing her!

“I’m really sorry, Mum…” he tried his best to pull himself together for the apology. “I’m sorry that I…I hurt you.”

“You shouldn’t be apologising to me, you should apologise to all those innocent students whose privacies were being exposed against their will,” she said, staring intensely at the spacious blank at the back of Otis. “You weren’t the one who made the contents revealed, but _you_ were the one who started it all.”

“Mum, please –”

“Bear in mind, Otis, causing harm to own’s family is always…an irredeemable loss. No one could bear that,” her tone was too calm, too low, too unbearable. “Never ever make mistakes that will cost you this loss again. This is the first lesson you learn in 17.”

There were the remnants of a feast of Japanese cuisine, seventeen extinguished candles lied on the side of a chocolate cake that had been sliced to be incomplete. The dim light radiated from the pendant lamp above them, and she had already left. She left there because their conversation should be ended at that moment. She left her son because she didn’t know what to do otherwise.

She headed to her room, closed the door, turned around, leaned her entire body against the door. Shivering, she took a deep breath, she was in pain; hastily, she counted to ten, the pain from her lower abdomen now spreading all over her. Her chests felt too tight, her muscles were stretched too tense, and she couldn’t cry. Tears already scalded her eyes, but she couldn’t cry. 

17 years old wasn’t that worse. Because it was the worst.

In the room filled with eternal darkness, emotions flooded in silently. She stood there, drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quite a long chapter, thanks for reading it!  
> -  
> So...this chapter is anxious + happy + warm + sad + very sad + very very sad.  
> Jean's hope was sparking somehow, then being extinguished all of a sudden.  
> To me, since Jean already learnt about the sex clinic, having Otis confess to Jean about the notebook thing is necessary because, rational wise, it was because of Otis that Mr Groff could get Jean's notebook and caused the following disaster. And! I think what Otis has done was actually quite severe, not only his behaviour has allowed Mr Groff to cause Jean harm, Otis' intention wasn't right in the first place. It shouldn't let it go just like that just because he has defended Jean at the school play. Not sure whether S3 will touch on this topic again, but in this fic, I'd hope Otis learns something!  
> -  
> I will be going on a short trip soon so I might not be able to update every 3 days. See ya!


	4. Falling Slowly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by [" _Falling Slowly"_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k8mtXwtapX4) by Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova  
> -  
> There were mentions about the COSRT (College of Sexual and Relationship Therapists) in the UK, but the information in my work may not be 100% accurate. Thus, I'd like to apologise first!

Most of the times, she felt nothing but numb. She didn’t put in research if deadening was derived from the psychological definition of different basic emotions, but this was what she truly felt. Though she was driving to Jakob’s home – thing that she would never have done in the past weeks – she still felt this way. She could feel it in her veins.

The next morning of Otis’ birthday, she woke up after he left for school. When he came home in the evening, she was in her office, doors closed. Eventually, she met him over dinner. Because he made them dinner – heating up the spaghetti Bolognese boxes which they usually bought in large quantity from the local supermarket that would make Jakob yell in Swedish whenever he opened their fridge – so across the table they were sitting in silence, knowing that none of the words could heal the cracks of the surface. 

_“Apart from taking responsibility, I’d like to stay honest,”_ in the middle, he decided to say. _“Taking own’s responsibility and staying honest are painful learning processes…so I won’t make these mistakes again. I promise. I’m really sorry.”_

She remained silent, tumbling the meatballs using her fork.

 _“If you don’t want to see me, I’ll stay over at Eric’s place for a few days. Or a week. Or…”_ he was going to exile himself. _“…probably the whole of the Easter holidays,”_ he was going to exile himself for as long as he could to make his redemption. 

_“Whatever you please,”_ she gave. _“You’re 17, you’ll take the ownership of your own actions.”_

From there she left the table quietly. Entering the guest lavatory, having the door closed behind her, she kneeled down and vomited, still trying to make it as soundless as it could be.

On Friday, she came downstairs and found herself alone with no surprise. She noticed something striking while taking her multivitamin – a hand-written note, using a red naked woman magnet to pin atop of the fridge – it was from Otis, he would stay at Eric’s place as started today. She had only one client that afternoon, and she couldn’t concentrate at all. She was exhausted, and the dizziness hit her without alarming. Her world was spinning that she could almost see those dancing little stars instead of her client’s face. In the session of only an hour, her client had to make a pause three times and asked her if she was okay. When the client left, she spent the rest of her day in bed. 

On Saturday, she had a regular vagina workshop. This week, she was going to bring those ladies an extraordinary experience of masturbation. Of course, no physical demonstration was involved, but she could tell how excited those ladies were when handling different types of vibrators. And when the workshop ended, she took out the leftover of Otis’ cake and asked if they wanted to eat, if they wouldn’t mind. No, no one would mind, they had a fun time, and no one would mind. So, she had all the ladies at her terrace, and she cut them cake, slice by slice. She brushed off those questions easily regarding her son, her son’s birthday and her son’s birthday cake. When the ladies were all long gone, she still sat on her chair at the terrace. Until the sun had begun to set, staring blankly at the River Wye, her own slice of cake remained untouched till the end. 

On Sunday, the hardest Sunday, the degree of numbness ran beyond its maximum. She wanted to do nothing but just lying on bed. Alarm off, phone off, curtain off. She hadn’t had morning sickness that day, but the incessant bloating made her have no appetite to eat at all. She used up all her strength to get up, so she could make herself a cup of ginger tea as to settle her restless stomach, but soon the familiar dull pain across her lower abdomen dragged her back to bed. It wasn’t necessarily painful, but it made her feel uncomfortable anyway; and she knew minor abdominal pain in the first trimester of pregnancy was perfectly normal (well, she realised she had just past the first trimester two days ago), but it made her think about that little one. How big could it be now in 12 weeks? The size of a lime. She read it from an article once. Was it developing normally and healthily? She wasn’t sure. She tried to hope for the best, but then again, what a healthy unborn baby could mean to her at the end? Surprisingly, it had made itself to the second trimester already, that it wasn’t defeated by the odds of natural selection, and now it was all her choice. If she wasn’t going to have the abortion, it might make it to the third trimester, then perhaps to the world, then to age one, to age two, to age three…and she was laying her hands on her pronounced belly, both hands, a moment that was so intimate. But she moved her hands away as soon as she realised what she was doing. She couldn’t do _this_. At first, she thought she couldn’t do this because of those fucking hundreds or thousands of reasons that were lying ahead, and now she realised it was her alone who couldn’t do this – she wasn’t a good mother. She _couldn’t_ be a good mother. Lying on her right side, she brought her knees close, covered her mouth with both hands, all of her trembling from sobbing. First time in days, she had broken down, but she told herself not to cry out loud. 

Numb. Deaden. Gloomy.

On Monday morning, she decided she couldn’t numb herself anymore. Or else she would be devoured by depression. She needed someone to talk. Though she wasn’t ready to talk about her pregnancy or Otis, but she needed to get herself out of this – she had just needed someone’s accompany. But who else could she talk to? Evelyn, her supervisor on practical? Evelyn had supervised her for years, she was her mentor, her life guru, and even on a more personal level, she was much more like Jean’s own mother. But they hadn’t been put in contact for a while, and she knew from Facebook that Evelyn was hospitalised for a stroke last Christmas and still in recovery. Thus, calling Evelyn now wasn’t a good idea. Then, Maureen? It wasn’t a good idea as well as there was something amiss between them or, more specifically, on Maureen. She texted Jean once for apologies on her husband’s behalf, right after she learnt that her husband insulted Jean publicly during the school play. Though she had comforted Maureen, she told her that she was just fine, but it seemed like Maureen still needed some time to compose herself before she could see Jean again. She had absented for a few weeks’ vagina workshop now, and Jean wouldn’t want to push things hard. And she even thought about calling her estranged sister. But no, she wasn’t going to call her sister. It was a terrible idea, ABSOLUTELY terrible. For she hated it was always her sister’s arrogant manager to pick up the line first, for her current life was miserable enough, she knew she would regret it the moment she clicked the “call” button to her sister.

Across her contacts she could hardly find a friend, not even a close colleague. She wasn’t unaware that she had no one in life that she could count on, she just wasn’t aware it could hurt that much – it hurt so much that she realised the only person she could ever count on, no matter what happened or for whatever reason, was Jakob. And it was _always_ Jakob. 

She had three back to back sessions after that, so she texted him before her first client came. She wasn’t that kind of texting person, she preferred talking over the phone because it felt real, and because she could catch those emotions that hid between the spoken words. But she opted for texting him this time as she thought she might cry once she had heard his voice. After the text was sent, she switched her phone into airplane mode instantly, so she knew she wouldn’t receive any reply from him during the sessions if he ever replied; she wouldn’t need to hold on to those pathetic expectations to keep her mind working, for that she was already struggling enough. 

Then three hours were gone, three sessions had been going through. The first two went to couple therapies, the last one was that _Maggie_. Maggie hadn’t made a comment on her pregnancy this time, for she already assumed she was pregnant. Jean could notice her blinking eyesight kept directing towards her belly with the little sniggers throughout the session, but she was really tired of making any excuses again to conceal her pregnancy from Maggie. After sending Maggie away, she got stuck in the chair, phone was laid on the surface, and she palmed her face. Again, numbness sat with her at the kitchen counter, and she tried to persuade herself she was going to be just fine whether or not she received his text, whether or not his reply had lit the green light. Though such self-persuasion wasn’t so comforting, but she was going to be just fine. So, she licked her lips, reached for her phone, unlocked the screen, swiped down the toolbar and switched off the airplane mode. The Wi-fi was reconnected, the world was reconnected, then two WhatsApp message notifications popped up. 

She might have a heart attack. Both messages appeared under his name. 

_not today_ , his first text was a reply to the message that she asked if they could talk – face to face – and the next one was written, _day off tomorrow. free after 2 pm_. She read them repeatedly, took her a few minutes, only then was she brave enough to make a reply.

The next day, she left the house with her afternoon client. Though she knew she would have arrived earlier, but she couldn’t stay in that house anymore. And because _on time is late_ , damned the absurd philosophy of the Milburn family that she had somehow given in. When she turned into a drive from the main road, she could see Jakob’s cottage from far away – a building that made up of old oaks and pines and stone walls, settling quietly in the ground of the woods. Jakob told her he fell in love at first sight with this cottage when the owner hired him to work on some renovation so that he could put it on sale before his migration; he ended up buying this cottage from the owner with a fair price. Jakob told her he had renovated his master bedroom, so it was comfortable to be _living for two_ ; with a smile, she told him that he was considerate, but the idea of living for two really horrified her, and she thought they might not go that _far_. She never properly visited his cottage, for the Nymans had just moved in during the Christmas holidays, for she always turned down his invitation to stay over using the same old reasons – _“We couldn’t let the kids know yet, could we?”_ and then it was, _“I have clients come in the morning. I can’t be late for work.”_ – and the first time she ever stepped into his new home turned up to be the last time. A nightmare indeed.

He used to park his red van at the side of the drive, never had a proper garage – the same went to her, her exclusive parking space was under the old oak tree in front of her house – so she parked her estate car before his red van. Taking a deep breath, she turned off the engine and thought again, _I’m going to be just fine_. Jakob was digging in his little garden in the front yard. When she got herself out of the car, he turned to her, stood up and frowned. She wasn’t sure if she could be just fine as she thought.

She had this small paper bag with her – his old jumper, crew-necked, cashmere, the fading sky blue always reminded her of his warm blue eyes – and now these warm blue eyes were staring at her, unreadable. Dropping his shovel aside, Jakob ambled towards her just like the old days. Standing still as if she was pinned to the ground, somehow, she forgot how to breathe. 

“Hi,” she greeted first, voice flippant. She hated it.

“You came early,” he said. “2 pm.”

“Uh, right,” stilled, she could tell he didn’t look pleasant. She had come at the _wrong time_. “I guess I’ve came early...”

He gave a nod as a simple remark. He had longer hair now, not bothered to shave, the darkened shades rendered beneath his eye bags. He looked tired. She was certain she hadn’t seen him this tired before. And her heart ached again. She missed him dearly. 

He glanced back to his front door, then turned to her. “Can we meet at some other place?”

“Sure. Fine. Any place you’d like to suggest?”

“You know…there’s a coffee shop at the corner,” he asked. “That one with nice crepe cakes?”

Yes, of course, she knew. There was a coffee shop at the corner, they had tables and chairs on the pavement, they made nice crepe cakes. And he said, _“We should go there, like we’re in Paris, mon amour.”_ But they never went. 

“Yes, I know.”

“Good,” he nodded quietly. Looking down at his soiled gloves, he said, “I’ll meet you there.” 

Apparently, he wasn’t going to invite her to his house. He wasn’t going to let her take his personal space again. Once upon a time, it was her to move the first step – a distance that was close enough for her to sniff his head, the aroma of pheromones and sweat, she invaded his space. 

She still stood there for a moment after seeing him disappear from her sight, trying to resolve the unwavering turmoil. They hadn’t seen each other for nearly a month. _A month_ , she was startled by the fact – no calls, no texts, not even an occasional coincidental meet up. Moordale was a pretty small place, she expected she would run into him for sure at the bank, or post office, or supermarket, or even they would drive past each other on the road. But the truth was: they never saw each other again since the play. Perhaps, it wasn’t too hard to avoid someone that wasn’t ready for the kind of intimacy one was looking for.

“Jean?”

She glanced up; it was the young girl who always had a genial smile standing on the porch. Ola darted towards Jean. Jakob said she resembled her late mother.

“Hi, Ola.”

“Are you looking for Dad?” Ola had these denim dungarees and long sleeves fitted t-shirt in a rainbow colour. She looked wonderful. “Don’t you want to come in?”

 _Don’t you want to come in?_ She asked it so simple. She asked it as if Jean used to come and see her father. She asked it as if it was so normal to see Jean here.

“Yeah. Uh, no,” Jean gave, adjusting herself. “Actually, your father has suggested meeting up at some other place. The coffee shop at the corner.”

“Oh,” Ola hesitated as though she was figuring something. “Can I ask for a lift then?” clenching the straps of her backpack, she then asked. “I got a job for an Easters book fair at The Chiam’s Bookstore, just two streets away from the coffee shop. And I’m going to be late for my shift...”

Looking at Ola, she nodded and smiled. 

So, Jean ended up fetching her ex-boyfriend’s daughter to work en route to meet up with her ex-boyfriend. She should have said something, really. She thought of asking Ola how Jakob was doing, but she could have asked herself as she was going to see him anyway. She wondered why Ola hadn’t asked for her father’s ride instead of hers, but things always led to other things. For she and Ola only shared a 10-minute ride, she didn’t want to make things complicated. 

“Jean?” Ola initiated. Thank God. 

“Yes?”

“Do you know about other psychological disorders…like sleeping disorders or what sort?”

“You mean mental health stuff?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Well, I’m not a psychiatrist or a clinical psychologist, but I have come across a few cases that had related psychological disorders. As sometimes sexual dysfunction could associate with certain mental health issues,” Jean said, ready to retrieve any information in her memories. University knowledge shouldn’t be that far from her. “Anything to ask about it?”

“The thing is, there’s someone I know, he got some problems. I need some advice on how to help him.”

“Okay. Why don’t you start by telling me about the person?”

“Yeah, he got some serious history back then. He’s been sad lately, and quieter. I’d say he’s nearly depressed,” the girl said. “He looks fine during the day…he looks mostly fine, which is scarier. He had insomnia before, I think now he has it again. And the problem is, he refused to talk when being asked. And he’s like, ' _I’m okay._ ' But we know he isn’t. How can we help this kind of people?”

“Mhm…quite similar to some of my few cases. I mean, not sexually, but the emotional aspect and their respective behaviours,” she clarified, then commented. “When I was coming across this kind of clients, I would try to be the significant one who they could put their trust in, and then they had me for whatever reason. Slowly, they would open their hearts.”

“It’s a bit hard. I guess he has no significant one that he feels close enough to him to pour his heart out. Or he refused to acknowledge one.”

They pulled into the street where the bookstore was located, but got stuck in the queue of heavy traffic. Typical phenomenon for a small-town-big-event.

“But most of the time, it’s depended on the individuals,” pushing the brake pedal, Jean further explained. “The key is, they need to have the urge to help themselves or to be helped.”

“Oh, then that’s the hardest,” Ola let out a sigh. “Although he tries not to, but I’m afraid he’s approaching the breaking point of helplessness. It’s out of his own control, which he had done before.”

“Was that severe? To which degree will I be allowed to know?”

“To which…” Ola looked at her intensely, voice lowered. “He almost died.”

Suddenly, a car horn struck from the back, both of them jumped in response. Brushing off, Jean composed herself quickly and moved her car forward. Finally, they stopped at The Chiam’s Bookstore with a long queue of cars behind them.

“Wow,” Jean stared at the crowd in front of the bookstore from her window. “It’s really happening.”

“Yeah, the book fair is held until the end of the holidays. You should come one day.”

“I probably should.”

“Um…Jean?” Ola asked, a bit of embarrassment shaded her facial expression. “Could you please don’t tell Dad you’ve met me or anything we’ve talked about just now? Things have been quite tense between us recently. I don’t want him to know.”

“Oh, sure,” she shrugged. Middle adolescence was indeed a tumultuous stage of development. “I absolutely understand.”

“Thanks, Jean.”

The girl loosened her seat belt, then grabbed the backpack in her laps and slipped out from the front seat.

“Ola,” Jean said, stopping her before she closed the door. “Even though the input is insufficient, but I do hope our conversations would be helpful.”

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” a big smile beamed across her little face. “Lovely to see you! Bye!”

After pulling out from the street, Jean turned to the left, the coffee shop was just located at the corner. And thank goodness, a saloon had just vacated an available space beside a red van. Immediately, she pulled into that parking space, turned off the engine and saw a yellow _Fixin’ It_ car sticker on the van from her window – only she realised it was Jakob’s van that she had parked side by side. Moving her glance away, she twisted around to pick up her handbag and the paper bag from the footwell of the back seats and left the car. When she headed into the coffee shop, the numbness that had haunted her for days somehow alleviated.

Jakob was there – she saw him the moment she stepped into the building – it was a table for two near the window at the corner. He didn’t notice her as he was facing backwards from the entrance, but he was relaxed, at least relaxed than their brief meet up just now, she could tell by his sitting – stretching his extreme long legs beneath the table, leaning his entire body against the chair, he rested his fingers on the table surface as he was occupied by the view outside the window. He had put on a leather jacket, dark brown, it suited him for his fair skin. 

He turned around when he heard her approaching wedges stepping on the floor. “Hey,” he greeted her with a small smile. He was fucking SMILING AT HER.

“Sorry,” she said, slipping herself into the seat. “I was running some errands at the block behind. Heavy traffic.”

“It’s for a book fair at the bookstore behind. Ola is doing a part-time job there.” 

“Yeah, I know.”

He frowned. “You’ve met Ola?” 

_Shit, Ola!_ “No, I didn’t meet Ola,” she lied. “Just saying…people are crazy about books.”

“People are crazy about sales,” he gently corrected. Lowering his eyes, he then gave. “I have to change the place. My house was not available just now. Sorry.”

“It’s absolutely fine. I’m the one who came early anyway.”

Then, he noticed the small paper bag that she had placed on the table, leaned against the window. “What’s this?”

“Oh,” she said, pushing the paper bag to him across the table. “It’s your jumper.”

“My jumper?” picking up the paper bag from her and placing it on his laps, he asked genuinely as if he never had a jumper. 

“The one you’ve worn a lot, it’s cashmere,” she tried to remind him, although awkward. “Sky blue, remember? I’ve said it suited the colour of your eyes…that I liked it.”

“Oh,” pulling out a little corner of the garment from the paper bag, he paused. “Right.” 

Well, now he remembered.

There were nights when she curled beneath the duvet weeping, she grasped his jumper against her chests tightly, relieved that he had left it. “To be honest, I wasn’t aware you had left it,” She had tucked it under her pillow, so it could put her to sleep. “Just found it in my room a few days ago, in the corner where I put my heels,” Since he had forgotten long ago, she thought she would never return to him. “Since you’ve worn it a lot, I just thought that I should…should return to you.”

He looked at her for a moment. And she stretched a smile in response. _Too fake_ , she thought. 

“Okay, thank you,” decided the answer she gave was the best answer he could have, he put the garment back and placed the paper bag at the side of his chair.

And now she lost his jumper, but he sat across the table. Outside the window, the sun was shining brighter than any moment before now. He was quiet, she was quiet too. The sun shined through the window and kissed their cheeks, just like those many moments they had shared.

Until he took the initiative to make the order, breaking the rare moment of silence between them. It was a self-service coffee shop, they would need to place their order at the counter, so he asked what she would like. 

“I think I’d like a cup of tea,” she said. 

“Just a cup of tea?”

It was too late for lunch but too early for teatime, and she could barely eat. Though she went past the first trimester, but it seemed as if the increased appetite was yet to hit her, and the ceaseless nausea and bloating just didn’t want to leave her alone.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Ginger tea or peppermint tea, if they had one.”

He nodded, gave her a soft _okay_ and left their table. She watched him walking swiftly to the counter, glancing up at the menu board at the back of the cashier then placing an order. The young lady at the counter couldn’t hide her blushed look when talking to him. Then he took out his wallet from the right pocket, she made herself a mental note that she should pay him back. But when he returned with a receipt that he would also usually keep inside his pocket, he refused her request to split the bill.

“Just a small thing,” he said, readjusting his sitting position. “I thought you’d want coffee?”

“No, no coffee,” she gently shook her head. “I don’t drink coffee very much lately.”

“Is it?” he chuckled a bit. “So not you. Strange.”

She winced at his statement. She remembered he had called her _a strange woman_.

“So, how are you?” he asked, a polite gentility. “After the kids’ headmaster did the stupid thing to you at the play?”

“Well, actually, I…” she had so many things to tell him; she had so much upset, disappointment and pain that tore through her – “I’m fine,” she said, because she refused to drift off from her comfort zone, she rejected his existence to seep into her life again. Fuck. 

“You’re fine?”

“Um, I mean, ‘I’m fine’ in terms of work,” she managed. “At least no one is filing me a complaint to COSRT as for now. It’s the most important matter regarding my career.”

He furrowed his brow. “C-O-S – what?” 

“Oh, it’s…uh, COSRT, the _College of Sexual and Relationship Therapists_ ,” she explained. “It’s a professional body that manages all sex and relationship therapists in the UK. Like a…a big management company. It provides training, it gives qualified therapists licence to practise, it gives punishments to those against the code of conduct…” 

Though she knew he wasn’t really understanding all her words, as he never really understood what her job was, but he always tried to understand. And he always _listened_.

“This body, this big management company…what will happen when someone files you a complaint to them?”

“Well, it actually depends on the severity of the complaint, whether it would be accepted. Let’s say they accepted the complaint against me, they would open a case and start the investigation,” she gave, trying to suppress the feeling of wronged that was growing inside her. “Then disciplinary actions might be taken on me, based on the decision of the Panel.”

“So, it is a serious thing.”

“It is.”

“What will happen if they really want to punish you?”

“I might receive a warning, or a temporary suspension, or…” she took a deep breath, her voice cracked. “My membership to COSRT and licence would be revoked…I couldn’t practise as a sex and relationship therapist for the foreseeable future.”

“Wow,” he looked at her. “They are not very friendly.”

“They aren’t, but it’s fair enough,” she said. “And now, as you can see, nothing happened on me. Just some gossips that are flying here, flying there…but it’s fair enough too, for the students’ privacies being exposed under my care.”

“No, no, no,” shaking his head while stretching a soft smile, he talked in his Swedish accent that always made her heart nearly explode. “People who accused you are stupid, like the kids’ headmaster. I heard from Ola, he’s being suspended now. And people who don’t believe you are stupid too, because they don’t know you. We can’t just simply judge people if we don’t know them well, yeah?” and the sun was so bright, his big eyes were so blue. “It was not your fault, Jean. I know you. I believe in you.”

Oh God, she might want to cry.

Then the bell rang, he looked over his shoulder and said, _it’s ours_. He left for collecting their order and came back with a tray in his hands that he had held so elegant, so casual – as if they had done this many times before; as if they used to date here, or in a restaurant, or any place other than her house – did they even have a _proper_ date, though? 

He handed her the peppermint tea first, then the cappuccino for his own, and a small plate of crepe cake in fancy dressings set between them. When he returned to his seat, he pushed the crepe cake towards her, putting a smile as a signal to make the offering to her. 

“I didn’t order a crepe cake,” frowning, she said.

“I ordered for you,” he gave. “It’s chocolate. Your favourite.”

Gazing at him, she wasn’t sure what to say. 

“What?” he chuckled. His eyes, his dimples, even the fine line that bracketed his smile almost penetrated her. “Don’t tell me you also don’t like chocolate lately.” 

She broke the gaze, feeling hot all of a sudden. “No, I still like chocolate very much. Just that…that…” embarrassment waved over her; did she even blush? “I don’t have a good appetite. And please, don’t make me explain why.”

He nodded to that acknowledgment, not intended for further enquiry. It was one of the things she liked about him – he wouldn’t ask if she didn’t want to speak – and she thought it might be one of the things that he disliked about her.

“But I’d still like you to try. Ola said it is the best crepe cake she ever had,” he looked at her, cooing at her like she was a baby. “Just eat some…eat the strawberries if you don’t want chocolate. If you really can’t finish eating, we will see how.”

She smiled half-heartedly; a bit overwhelmed by the tenderness of this man that she knew she didn’t deserve. But she still picked up the pastry fork, digging into the crepe cake before her. When she glanced up again, it was Jakob sitting across the table from her, sipping his cappuccino with grace. He was real, and this was real. In a breezy Tuesday afternoon, here in a coffee shop where he had asked her to go for too many times, but had her declined for too many times, she and Jakob were now sitting on a table for two as if they had never left each other.

When he broke his gaze from the world outside the window and looked into her eyes again, she knew she had to say something. She knew she _should_ have said something.

“So…how are you?” the chocolate coated strawberry burst in her mouth. Hell, she had used his words.

He grinned, leaning backward. “I’m good,” he sounded even.

She stared at the shallow dark circles under his eyes. “You’re good?” bloody hell, she had used his expression, again. 

This time, he laughed, shaking his head lightly as though she had amused him. And then, his laughter slowly dissipated. Within moments, he sat still, the calmness returned.

“This whole thing,” gazing at her, or rather, piercing through her, he asked, “Isn’t about my jumper, is it?” 

_Fuck him_ , she startled. He always broke her walls first. Always!

“You are not…looked good, you know?” every single word, he said them so gently, so kindly. “You said you wanted to talk, hm? So, I’m here.” 

She parted her lips; but somehow, she didn’t know what she could talk about though those thousands of words had choked her lungs. Those words could cut through one’s skin, rip out the heart; those words she didn’t want to let go from her mouth, but she knew she had to. Countless of time in numberless of session, she had helped her clients to go through this – the most painful part in human communications, _to speak out_ , to speak out your pain, your shame and your sin – then you would admit it, face it, embrace it. And now she didn’t know what else she could talk about other than her pain, her shame and her sin that she knew would hurt them both, for sure.

Between them, she had done this so many times – she really didn’t want to talk, so none of them would get hurt. But at the end, what did she bring herself and Jakob into? As the numbness receded, the devastation was slithering along her spine up to her throat that she knew there was no way out. Putting down her pastry fork, she really needed to hold tight those tears as the emotions rose within her. So, she folded her palms, turned away and shut her eyes.

“It’s okay,” he soothed her, voice low. “Just take your time.” 

_You said you wanted to talk_. It’s okay. _So, I’m here_. Just take your time. 

Nervously, she turned back, opened her eyes. Jakob was still there, right in front of her, making her heart eased and ached at the same time. There was a moment she really wanted to escape again; perhaps she wasn’t ready, perhaps she wasn’t brave enough. But she had asked for him and he was here, she shouldn’t shut him down, not anymore.

“I realised I’m not a good person,” taking a deep breath, she placed her folded palms in her laps, gripping. “The thing between us, I should have apologised first, I should have realised how wrong I’ve done to you…” another deep breath. “I shouldn’t ask you to…to take me back as nothing has ever happened. I want to say sorry, Jakob. I am truly sorry.”

Crossing his arms before his chests, he sighed, but nodded quietly. Eyes staring at his own cup of cappuccino, he didn’t even look at her.

“And I’m thinking…is it because of me, unworthy of loving and loving others, that made me such a failed person in relationships,” her knuckles were white, and she was shivering. “I’ve failed you; I’ve failed Otis as a mother…” 

“What happened to Otis?” breathing steadily, he asked.

She met his gaze; the tears were burning her eyes. Gripping tightly of her folded palms, those tendons in her wrists protruded like the routes on the map, those arteries and veins that carried her ceasing numbness forth and back, tracing the pain under her skins but went lost in the end.

“My notebook, that one being exposed, was actually…” she licked her trembling lips, tried to pull herself together. “Taken by Otis.”

He was frowning, his facial features tensed at the confusion and seriousness of her words. But he waited patiently.

“Otis had taken it from my handbag…and somehow, it went missing. And someone took it, photocopied all the contents, and…” there she stopped, unable to repeat the story they both already knew.

“Why he did that?”

“Because…he didn’t want me to know his things. I think he had seen me as an invader of his life.”

“Invader,” he repeated her word. His mouth curved into an ironic smile. 

“Now, I’ve not only got a stranger living in my house, I got a thief, and he’s my own son…” she breathed shakily, she didn’t want to cry. She really didn’t want to cry. “What the hell I’ve got myself into…to let my son feel this way that he needed to do such a thing in order to keep me out of his life? How failed am I being a mother?” 

He stayed quiet, staring at her intensely. And those piercing blue eyes really drove her insane.

“Jakob, please be honest to me…” she asked hastily. “Are you seeing me this way too? That I’ve invaded your life, that I’ve failed you –”

“No,” he answered, almost instantly. “You’re a good person, Jean. Actually, you’re one of the best people I’ve met in my life…I’m thankful.”

His words were filled with a sincerity that could split her already broken heart further into millions of shards, burnt into repentance of ashes. A single tear escaped from her left eye, rolled down her cheek. How could she just push him away? She brushed away her tears angrily. How could she hurt him so bad? 

He looked at her solemnly, he let her be. The moments later, she could talk some, storying about Otis’ heart-warming-turned-out-disastrous-birthday night; but there were times she needed to pause, to breathe, so story pieces remained puzzled, and he still let her be. When she could no longer hold on and burst into tears, she brought up her palms so she could bury her face in it, for she hated crying in public especially in front of him, he still let her be. He let her be the worst of her, yet he still saw her the best of his.

“What would you do when your son came home?” waited until she was calming down, he asked carefully.

“Seriously, I have no idea,” embarrassed, she sniffed. “What would you do…say, it’s between you and Ola or your eldest daughter?”

He hummed. “You love your son?”

“Jakob,” she gave him a warning before she turned away and took a deep breath. If he was going to probe her feelings towards Otis again, she might set off another wave of crying. And she would definitely blame him on that.

“I love my girls, very much,” he said softly. Whenever he talked about his daughters, she could see the glorious radiated from his entire chests. “Ola makes me headache too. Don’t mention Olga. 20 years old, young lady, dramatic. So terrible.”

Laying her eyes on him again, she chuckled lightly at his descriptions – short but precisely. If she wasn’t occupied by the sadness and helplessness that were waving all over her, she would tell him the word “terrible” was a strong word to be used on a child. But she didn’t, and she knew he did know girls too well.

“But I always tell myself, they’re being kids for the first time. They will make mistakes for sure,” he said. “So do us, we’re being parents for the first time too. We’re not born to be parents. We will make mistakes; we learn from mistakes. Then we will become better.”

He said people would make mistakes; learn from mistakes. He said people would become better then.

Another sip of cappuccino, he said casually. “You know, temporary separation is good.”

She nodded quietly. 

“Just give yourself and your son some time. Thing will pass,” kindly, he suggested. “When he came home, give him a hug or whatever. Let him know you love him no matter what. Otis is a good young man, I’m sure he felt sorry. And he loves you too.”

“You’re saying like you know him well,” a small scoff, she knew that things never went well between him and Otis.

“Trust me. Kids love us,” he beamed. “Kids already love us even before they’re born, when they’re still sleeping inside mamma’s womb.”

At that moment, all his words overwhelmed her at once. Those patient words comforted her, those wisdom words soothed her, but those tender words at the end had struck through her. Her eyes became watery again, but she blinked them away. She thought as if she might be drowned by her own tears; those hopes that had been slipping through her fingers were now coming back. 

“Cannot finish it?” tilting his head to point at her half-bites crepe cake, he asked lightly. 

And she held tight, pursed her lips into a fine line, shaking her head with her glassy innocent eyes that always allured him. A pity little baby indeed. 

He let out a breath with a soft smile. “Come, I will help you,” he adjusted his seat and leaned forward, pulling the small plate of crepe cake from her. 

He picked up her pastry fork, cutting a mouthful of the portion gently, then brought it to his mouth. When he concentrated enough, he looked good – a way too good, that almost sunk her broken heart to the bottom of nowhere else from the darkness. Those fine lines of his facial features, those wrinkles, those bristles that he didn’t bother to shave. She wondered if she would be able to run her fingers over his cheeks again while he was smiling at her. She wondered if she would be given another chance to see his eyelashes blinked in ashamed whenever she whispered his name into his ears.

“Jakob,” she said, staring at him anxiously. 

Lifting his head, he met her gaze. Even his eyes were so warming, those big blue eyes like the cloudless sky. There was a big window where they stood face to face, when he told her she wasn’t ready for the kind of intimacy he was looking for. And now, with a big window they sat across a table, eyes to eyes, she wondered if she could become the kind of intimacy he ever wanted.

“You said people will become better when they learn from their mistakes,” and her tone calmed, she wanted him to understand. “I want to be better; I want to correct my mistakes. If…if I’m allowed to, if you’re willing to give me another chance.”

Startled, his fork hung in the air. 

“I’m sorry that I hurt you. I knew I couldn’t commit, but I still…wanted you,” she shut her eyes tightly, forcing herself to open up. “But this time, I really want to be that kind of intimacy you needed. I understand you might think I couldn’t, and I have to admit that I’m not sure if I have fully ready, maybe not just yet, but I really want to.”

After saying those words from the bottom of her heart, only then she was brave enough to open her eyes again. And she saw him seeing her, seeing her deeply, searching for an answer from her eyes.

“I want you, Jakob. I really do.”

Though the heart was wounded, though the words were weightless, she still wanted to say it. She wanted to be better. She wanted to try again. She wanted to be him. She wanted – 

“I’m afraid, Jean.”

 _Afraid_. He had used this word more than once. 

“What are you afraid of?” furrowing her brow, she asked shakily as if she was so small. “That you couldn’t get up?”

He held his gaze. Silence and stilled, as if the time between them had frozen. As if there were things he couldn’t tell her by words, that she wouldn’t know forever.

“The way you said you want me…” his voice was low; the bouncing of heart was shallow. “Just like the way you said you like me.”

And she looked into his eyes. He was confused…and tired. But he lowered his hand, he lowered his eyes. Their gaze broke at the second she thought she could press her lips on his forehead like he used to kiss her better in the old days.

“You said you like me, then we entered a relationship. But you walked away so easily, you always…left me there,” he said softly. “The last time you came to see me, I thought you said you understand?”

All of the sudden, she went blank. She understood. She was. How could she forget his words that had burnt themselves to her mind? But now, at this moment, she thought she wasn’t. 

“The intimacy that I want is…trust,” exhaled deeply, he formulated his words carefully, but his facial expressions were unreadable. “If you trust me, you will tell me what you want, what you don’t want; you will let me know your boundaries. We will make this relationship works, together. No pushing away, no hiding, no afraid. You will let me see you, and you will trust me that I can catch you whenever you’re falling,” his voice was gentle, so gentle. Words could be a blade; he didn’t want to hurt her. “But at the end of the day, you did not trust me, Jean. Even though you want me, but is it enough for you to _need_ me?”

And she realised. She finally understood. 

She wasn’t the only one who needed him, he needed her too. He needed her to need him. Mutual love, reciprocity. Wasn’t she afraid of this? She couldn’t love him as much as he loved her, she couldn’t love anyone. Was that even love happened between them? It was too soon to use the word _love_ , but she did care for him, and he cared for her too. If this wasn’t love, what else could it be? 

As she was finding her words, as the sun shines were still flowing in, their eyes met again. Just like the first day they met. Those warming blue eyes reflected some shades she couldn’t exactly tell, maybe they weren’t that warming before. But she was here, willing to look into those eyes, willing to drown into those pools of thoughts. 

“Maybe…we still need more time to think, hm?” he said. “Don’t give each other an answer with doubts.” 

Then, he gave her a smile. A smile that she had never seen, a smile with his saddened eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turned out my trip was cancelled at the last minute due to increased cases of COVID-19 in my country. So I think I'd just update as usual.  
> -  
> Another long chapter and finally Jean & Jakob have met. This is also another chapter that I struggled to be writing because Jean was so sad and I hope I could catch Jakob's character properly.  
> -  
> If you have any idea/suggestion/feedback, please don't hesitate to let me know. Your comment will make my day! And please stay safe and stay healthy!


	5. All I Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by [" _All I Want_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mtf7hC17IBM) by Kodaline

_still crying?_

Jakob texted her the night they met up in the coffee shop. She jumped from the bed when she saw his message popped up on her phone screen.

_Not anymore_ , she replied. The weariness dissipated, but her fingers shivered. _Don’t worry._

_good. drink more water, stay hydrated_

Simple. Direct. Neglecting grammatical components, but the tenderness resurfaced. He was still the Jakob Nyman she knew. 

_I will. And thanks for today, I appreciate it very much._

_me too_

Then, he sent her an image. A selfie without his face – pretty good angle, not blurry, he was so much techier than she thought – he had put on the cashmere jumper that she returned to him.

_thank you, i love my jumper_ , followed by a heart emoji. 

And she chuckled at her phone without knowing why. 

_I love talking to you. But I hope it won’t be a burden for you to talk to me._

_no burden. it’s a good thing. i’m sure today i knew you much better_

_Glad to hear that._

Two thumbs up emoji from him. 

Then, she paused, her old habit came back to her. This was the moment she got the cue. She knew how it ended – their late-night chats used to end this way when she started to throw “okay, good night then”, “sleep well”, “sweet dreams” or “meet me in your dreams” if she was flirty. But this time, she didn’t want to say such a simple thing and end their days. 

_I hope today isn’t overwhelmed you_ , typing another message, she took a deep breath. _I understand if you find it difficult to digest the things we’ve talked about._

_i’m ok. i just want you to be happy_ , he added. _and not crying_

Something sparkled in her chests. At that moment, she hesitated. But she still wanted to ask, she wanted to know. 

_Will you really think about us?_

_i am thinking now_

Her heart lost a beat. But she felt warmth. It was always wonderful to have someone thinking about the same thing at the same time. She glanced at her window, the outside world was painted in blue and grey, and she wondered if he would be sitting at the window seat by his room, looking at the same night sky though they were miles apart, though between them there were unresolved pain and trust. She felt as if they had synchronised.

_Actually, I’m thinking too._

_but i don’t want you to think, enough for today_ , he texted back. _you had been so tired. time for bed?_

So, this was the end. It ended nicely. But she wanted something concrete, she wanted to show him that she cared. 

_I know if I say so you may think it’s inappropriate, but I’d want you to know that_ , she sent the first text, then inhaled, held on, another text. _I miss you._

Almost one minute later, only then was he in _typing…_

_ok, copied_ , smiling emoji with three hearts surrounded. _everything will be ok. sleep tight, k?_

•

Staring at those papers, she breathed. She knew what those figures printed on the papers meant.

The results of the chromosomal abnormalities screening test were sent to her: there were two sets, one for Down’s syndrome, another combined one for Edward’s syndrome and Patau’s syndrome. Both came back with low-chance results. 

_Low chance_ …she put those papers on the coffee table where the contents of her bounty pack were scattered around, the ultrasound printout lay at the corner. She leaned back against the couch, palming both her hands on her abdomen. Through her incessant pregnancy symptoms, through the moment she heard the heartbeats and met that little one on the screen filled with an expanse of black and grey where it’s outline was shaped, many things had reminded her that _it was there_. This time, she wanted to say hi – properly, formally, whole-heartedly – but she brushed that idea away before speaking it out. Why did she want to say hi? She pondered. No emotional attachment, wasn’t it?

Just now, she received a call from Adrienne as to check in on her. She asked Jean if she received the results. And she said yes, she received the post yesterday, but only read it today because she wasn’t ready. Her midwife gave her a soft laugh and asked her if she had considered any choice she would like to make.

“I…I still don’t know, to be honest,” she gave. “I understand this isn’t the kind of thing that people will help me to figure it out if I said I was unsure.”

She didn’t know, she wasn’t sure. For Dr Jean Milburn would rarely claim things with “I don’t know” or “I'm not sure”, well, she did it now. Another record had this little one made while still growing inside her. 

Across the line, Adrienne asked. “Although this is all about you and your own choice, but have you talked to the baby’s father?”

“As a matter of fact, we came to keep in touch again recently,” she admitted, a small smile, but soon followed by a deep sigh. “He doesn’t know yet.”

“Will you tell him about that?”

She would tell him – finally, she promised herself – as long as both of them had come to a decision about their relationship. Because she wanted him to give her a chance, not the baby. She didn’t want Jakob to take her back just because of an unexpected life that they might celebrate or not celebrate together. She didn’t want something unpromising, then drafting the future based on false hope. What she wanted was Jakob to be fully himself. She wanted him to make his own choice, though it could mean he wanted neither her nor the baby in the end. Then, it would all be her own decision, all of her own.

“I think I still need some time.”

“Alright, Jean. I’m not being pushy, but I think you have to come out with a decision as soon as possible, okay?” Adrienne advised. “It’s for your own and your baby’s health.”

“I know, Adrienne,” she said. “Thanks.”

“You can try to think what keeps you having this baby until now,” the midwife stated carefully. “Perhaps, ever since the beginning, you have known the answer already.”

And now she was thinking about Adrienne’s words. She was always so delicate, trying to remind her of those hidden meanings under the surface. Or, rather, she was stirring the facts that she always refused to acknowledge. 

Could she have this baby, though? At the end, it was her own choice, no doubt, but it was a decision that would affect so many lives. Despite herself, she had to consider Jakob. She had to consider Otis. Jakob might not want any more children; Otis made her realise parenting was painful. They were lives that she cared so much, they were lives that she didn’t dare to cause more harm. Oh, how could she forget – there were Jakob’s daughters too. Maybe Ola would be okay, she thought, but she barely knew about Jakob’s eldest, not even meeting her before. One of the only few things she knew about Olga was her age – 20 years old, even older than her own son – could she accept a little sibling who had a huge age gap in between? Could she even accept _her_? How could the scales work between human lives and an unborn child?

All of these set her emotions on the roller coaster, through every high and every low that made her exhausted from the inside out. She doubted if she could be that determined to have an abortion as her initial intention after so much ups and downs she and that little one went through together. It was strong, it kept her companion, it didn’t leave her as she thought…and what Jakob had said? _Kids already love us even before they’re born, when they’re still sleeping inside mamma’s womb_. And she wondered, did it love her already? If she chose to have an abortion, would it all bring the pain and regret that endured forever?

Her phone rang out of the blue that disrupted her messy mind. She made herself up, reached out of her phone and gazed at the caller display – she threw the phone at her side on the couch immediately – fuck the shit, she absolutely wouldn’t pick up that call! The ringing soon ended and framed itself in her phone screen as the missed call. But then it rang again. Bastard. 

Rolling her eyes irritatingly, Jean picked up her phone again and connected the call. 

“What do you want?” she asked, impatiently.

But the answer at the other end of the line made her jaw drop. Throwing away her phone again, she jumped from the couch and raced to the doorway. Door opened, bullets ready, the fucking thunderdick stood right in front of her.

“Jeanie!” Remi greeted her with a big smile, still holding his phone. “I’ve made a call this time.”

“I asked you to call before you pay a visit here, Remi, not when you stand right in front of my door!”

“Well, it’s a surprise for Otis,” waving the gift bag on his other hand while tucking his phone into his pocket, he said. “I missed his birthday. I swear it wasn’t my intention, I was being occupied by –”

“Oh please, we both know how capable you are in making excuses, a master!” she snapped sarcastically. “But, indeed, I’m so surprised by your presence. Aren’t you bringing your arse back to New York to save your shaky marriage? I’m sure Delilah has been throwing all your things at the corridor by now.”

“I was in Worcester. Pa and Mummy –”

“Right, your parents!” the degree of her tone elevated. “Of course, you need to _consult_ them, you’re divorcing again, aren’t you? What did your mother say this time? ‘ _If she wants the house, I want her to let go of my grandson!_ ’ or ‘ _you did not just give her money, she got the house and the child already!_ ’?” 

“Jeanie, I’m unsure what you were bothered about, but this is becoming hostile now.” 

“This isn’t becoming hostile because I’m truly, completely being hostile now!” a sardonic laugh and a pathetic look, she slayed. “Goodbye, Remi, I wish you a happy divorce!”

Stepping back, Jean slapped the door, but he rushed forward and stopped her in time. Using the left part of his body to stick the space between the door while she was trying to push him out with all of her might, both matured adults and decent sex and relationship therapists screamed in high pitch.

“JEANIEEE!” Remi shouted, loud enough to scare the birds on the branches away. “M-my flight is tomorrow morning! I’m going back to New York! I just want to see Otis, please!”

“Otis isn’t here and he won’t be here! Get out you wanking piece of shit!”

“Don’t push, arghhh –”

“I hope this will break your arm!” she added in furious. “Or chop off your fucking leg!”

“Jeanie, stop!” he breathed hastily. “I want to see you too! I want to apologise for the book thing!”

“GET OUTTT!!!”

“I’m sorry! Oh Jesus, just STOPPP!!!”

Suddenly, the dull pain across her lower abdomen emerged again – the throbbing kind of pain. She tried to breathe, the pain had no sign of ceasing. She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to push the door using her strength consistently given her condition. But she was getting more and more and more uncomfortable. Eventually, she gave up her resistance. The door was widely opened – one leaned against those soft coats hung at the wall-mounted hanger, another one steady himself at the door frame, both of them breathed shakily. 

“Oh-my-Jeanie!” Remi frowned in pain, trying to wave his left hand to ensure it was still functional. 

He then strengthened himself and entered the doorway, not even forgetting to give her a victorious look when he walked past her. Furiously, Jean rolled her eyes, then shut her fucking door.

“Your temper is just like the old days!” walking straight to the living room and stopped before the couch, he turned to her and grinned. “You just can’t tolerate me whenever you can’t get things on your way.”

“Huh?” she feigned a laugh. “Don’t credit yourself. You certainly don’t have any value that is worth tolerance!” 

Jean leaned back against the edge of the kitchen counter to steady herself. She crossed her arms, trying to regulate her breathing while withstanding the dull ache that dashing through her abdomen. She really wanted this man to fuck off.

“Anyway, I’m sorry, Jeanie,” he placed his free hand over his chests. “For everything.”

“For fuck’s sake,” she sneered. “Just save it to Delilah and your sons.”

Glancing away and making a small laugh, he shook his head before gazing back at her. “You know what? Your…this look, just reminded me of the days when you were pregnant.”

“What?” she winced.

“You don’t remember? When you were carrying Otis, your mood swings – boom!” he stated with a sarcastic tone while gesturing his hands in the air. “Mostly throwing tantrums at the time. Remi this! Remi that!” he then smirked, opening his arms and pointing at her. “And now, you just look like you’re pregnant again! So angry! So frustrated!”

And she looked at him. She just looked at him.

“Why do you look at me like that? Of course, you’re not pregnant,” he grimaced. “How is it possible?” 

She took a deep breath, breaking their gaze. She was shaking. She was fucking shaking. 

Suddenly, his scornful smile froze. “Wait…” he sensed something wrong. “Are you?” 

Now, she was thinking how she could manage herself not to explode and not to murder her son’s father at the same time. She would count to ten, yes, she would count to ten. If it didn’t work, then count from the backwards?

“I’m just kidding, Jeanie,” stepping backward, he tried to laugh, let the atmosphere become less tense but had just added more to the awkwardness. “I’m just –” 

Then, he bumped the couch. Then, he turned over. Then, he glanced at the couch and then the coffee table…then, he saw all the scattered evidences on the surface. 

“T-t-those things…” stuttering out, he dropped his gift bag to the floor and turned to her. He looked extremely shocked. 

And she shut her eyes. She was going to explode, then she would murder him. No, she was going to murder him, and she could explode at the same time. Then her explosion would just kill him at once? Phew, that was actually saving a lot of time! And now this fucking piece of wanking piece of fucking shit –

“Ouch!” 

A sudden sharp pain pierced her lower abdomen. She opened her eyes widely, palming her stomach while gasping for the air in panic. 

“Jeanie, are you okay?” Remi rushed to her, leaning over to grab her arms. 

She didn’t like to answer his question, she didn’t like their close proximity either. She still felt uncomfortable across her abdomen, but the sharp pain had faded. It appeared too soon, yet it was gone too soon, just like the lightning that had struck her. She couldn’t identify if it was the kind of pain that she should be worried about, but it was enough to make her alert. 

“Are you okay?” he asked again. He looked as panicked as she was. “Do you need help? Ambulance?”

“Your overreaction is unnecessary, Remi,” she finally muttered and breathed again. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve frightened me,” he was so gentle all of a sudden. “Come, come and sit down.” 

He escorted her to the couch, making sure she was sitting perfectly well. Then, he sank to the single couch across the coffee table. Rubbing his forehead, he sighed again, unbelievable. 

“Jesus, Jeanie…” still irritating, but somehow, he was kinder. “What the hell is going on?”

•

“So, you’re implying that you’re expecting your ex-boyfriend’s child, but he has no idea at all?”

“Remi,” she gave him a look. “ _Otis_.”

“Oh, right, Otis. Right.” 

On the coffee table, those papers and documents were kept, much to her surprise, Remi made her tea. And then, each of them occupied a corner of the common area – she curled up at the other end of the couch while he sat casually on the single couch, drawing the clear distance between them – they were talking, or more specifically, discussing, like the old times that they hadn’t pick up fights or before Remi started to peacocking, they could actually sit down and talk in peace, which surprised her the most. 

“So, you sure you’re okay?” he asked again. Actually, it was again and again and again.

But she wasn’t going to be gentle. “Just stop your exaggerated sympathy, I will appreciate that.”

“As my son’s primary carer, every decision you make will have direct influences on my son’s well-being,” he said in the tone he used to assert his dominant concerns. “High-risk pregnancy isn’t a small deal.” 

“We’re talking about Otis now.”

“Yeah, we’re talking about Otis now.”

She definitely didn’t want to talk to him other than things about Otis. But this manipulative, observant twat could know everything that he wanted to know – from her minor expressions, from her selective word usages; and she would defend and orchestrate everything that she could. Both of them knew each other too well.

“My personal life isn’t the topic we should bring on the table,” she warned him. “We should only discuss Otis.”

“It’s about Otis. Like I said, your decision will influence my son’s well-being,” dancing his words, he then smiled at her. “If you want this baby, I’m okay.”

“I certainly don’t need your permission for that!” furrowing her brow, Jean emphasised not-so-calmly. She really hated this man. “And apart from being my son’s biological father that we share parental responsibilities, I don’t think you have any right to interfere with my personal decision.”

“No, I mean I’m happy about that,” he added. “Sincerely.”

She glanced at him annoyingly, confused.

“You know…Delilah and I tried to have babies after our youngest?”

“Yeah, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Because of a daughter that you always dream of.” 

Remi always wanted a daughter. Turned out, he was having another two sons from his second marriage. God loved him.

“We had done IVF three times,” somehow, a sense of seriousness had rewritten his facial expression. “One failed, the other two ended up with miscarriages.”

She held the gaze for a moment, then lowered her eyes. Heavy information. She didn’t know they had suffered miscarriages. Licking her lips, she wasn’t sure what to say next.

“So, if you want this baby, please make sure you’re taking good care of yourself,” he then emphasised, somehow gentler. “After all, you’re the primary carer of Otis.” 

She found herself failing to fight back but gave a nod quietly as a response. It was true that he was a big shit, but he wasn’t wrong in this matter. 

“I know you hate me to say that, but I’d say you’re lucky, Jeanie,” leaning backward, he crossed his legs. “I’m truly happy for you.”

“Are you Remi Milburn?” she glanced up, then pulled a face. “Since when your caring and altruism are overflowing?”

He chuckled at her statement but didn’t answer. Then, she heard him sigh again. 

“So now, you and Delilah…” she said quietly. She didn’t mean to _care_ about him, just a common social courtesy and maybe a starter for potential sarcasm. 

“We’re in legal separation as for now,” he stated with a normal tone. It was rare that he would open up his personal matters, especially for those disreputable. “I missed Otis’ birthday because of this. Skyping across the continents all day, with Delilah and the attorney all that.”

“And your sons?”

“Joint legal custody. But they’ll stay with Delilah.”

She smirked. “I’m not surprised at all.”

“A few weeks back, Otis came to see me during one of my book tours at the nearby city,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I know I’m already a total arsehole dad to Otis, I don’t want to be the arsehole dad to my other children. It’s better if they stay with their mother.”

“Well, having self-awareness is always good for oneself,” she shrugged. “Especially when you’re aware that you’re an arsehole.”

He closed his eyes, waving both his hands in the air as if he finally surrendered to her. Then, he laughed. And this time, she laughed too. 

“By the way, do you need me to talk to Otis?” by the time they both came back to the ground, he asked. 

“You can call him if you’d like,” she let out a breath, didn’t look at him. “He’ll come home eventually. I think I’m just fine.”

“Actually…I had heard about your incident at school before this,” he said casually. “Our circle isn’t that big.”

Jean raised her brow. She then snickered, crossing her arms and staring at him with great interest. 

“You’re one of the best from the circle; a renowned therapist and a best-seller writer with me, many people are looking at us in the dark. And you know what? One of our colleagues even called me when he heard about the rumour! Then I told him, ‘ _Don’t you know about Jean? Of course she’s not such a careless person, must be someone out there!_ ’” he was praising her, speaking for her. Then, he added a mindful entrust. “Anyway, you know, I still have some relations with the COSRT. If something really happened –”

She raised her hand to make him pause, now a small irritating look. “Stop there, thank you.”

That was it. Her patience was only enough to hear his bullshit for one minute. 

“Okay, okay,” shrugging, Remi said. “And! About the book I told Michelle that we were going to write together…”

“Then I’m certain she had told you how _impressive_ my appraisal was on you,” she smiled at him, this _colossal twat_. 

“Sometimes, you needed to say something whenever people ask you what your next step is. They’re just so keen to know,” he narrowed his gaze, tickled by her expression. “Especially when I mentioned you. They love us!”

“You’re a fucking arsehole. But I’m glad you’re already aware of that,” she stated unkindly, didn’t care if it was the truth or a lie. Braggart was his other name anyway.

“Thanks for your sarcastic compliments, Dr Jean Milburn.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll have to thank for your inessential mention of me to your agent. Plus, your overreaction and over-caring this evening, Dr Remi Milburn.”

And the door being knocked suddenly, both of them gazed at the direction of the doorway. Jean furrowed her brow, stroking her belly lightly while trying to make herself up from the couch. 

“I’ll get the door,” Remi quickly raised a hand to stop her and stood up. “You, please sit.”

She breathed in, slowly sat back on the couch with a small smirk, letting him be the gentleman once more as he wished. No matter it was another show he would like to play or some redemptions he really wanted to make, she enjoyed his services without any gratitude. Not to mention, she hadn’t forgiven him for his manipulation, as she couldn’t forgive herself for the temptation to his seduction. Whether Jakob had forgiven her or not, she had already decided to hate this shithead forever.

So, she would thank him for bringing Otis the gift after he came back to the living room. Then, she would take this as a cue to kick him out. She wouldn’t see him for a while because separation procedure must be troublesome. Oh, she mustn’t forget to wish him a happy separation-soon-divorce again! Though she empathised with Delilah and the two young boys, she was sincerely happy for them because they deserved a loyal husband and a better father.

But when Remi returned to her with a bouquet, she forgot what she should say.

“What’s this?” mechanically, she took the bouquet from him, a lot of question marks. 

“It’s for you.”

“From who?” 

“Oh, Jacob.”

“Jac – wait, what? JAKOB?!”

“Right!” he cheered casually, then corrected himself. “Jakob. Not Jacob. Ha, Swedish really isn’t my thing.”

“Remi???” she exclaimed.

“Oh, yeah, Jakob!” he clamped his hands, only then he realised. “I opened the door. He saw me and said, ‘ _Hi._ ’ So, I _hi_ back. He said, ‘ _I don’t know you’re here._ ’ And I said, ‘ _I don’t know you’re coming over either._ ’ Then I asked, ‘ _Do you want to come in?_ ’ But he said, ‘ _It’s okay. This is for Jean. Bye._ ’ And then he left,” he then opened his arms, looking at her innocently. “That’s it, that’s all.”

And her jaw dropped as her mind exploded – THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT-SHIT-SHIT!!!

“Fuck you, Remi!” she threw the bouquet at his face while lifting herself from the couch like a flash of lightning. “FUCK YOU!!!” 

Remi stunned at first, then shouted at the back worrying. “For God’s sake, Jeanie! Be careful! Don’t run!”

But she ignored all of it, running to the doorway then to the porch as her heart was beating fast enough as if she had just raced a hundred meters. She opened the door, Jakob was just about to leave the gate of the stone stairway. And she looked at his back, she wanted to cry. Her heart raced like it was no longer hers, she heard the chirping of birds, and she wanted to cry.

“Jakob!”

His back went rigid, then he turned over hesitantly. Their eyes met on a breezy spring day. 

Holding the breath, she brought herself together to make her way outdoor. Somehow, she had died a little bit inside. He came to knock at her door, but her ego and naïveness had let him go. How could she be so stupid? How could she let him leave again? The last three steps of the stairway, then the last two steps, and the last step – he was there, right in front of her, catching the same air. She moved forward, finally exhaled the breath that made her lungs almost explode. 

They stood under the arch, eyes to eyes. She clasped her hands so tightly, and she suddenly went blank. She hoped he wouldn’t notice she was trembling. She hoped he wouldn’t whisper her name that made her eyes start watering.

“Hey,” he said. So soft, so attractive, but something amiss. 

He had trimmed his hair, he had shaved; under the worn tawny jacket, he had put on the cashmere jumper that she liked. The warming, fading sky blue that reminded her of his eyes, but now emotions were so deep in the sight. Here they stood, before the red wooden house where their eyes were met, where their hearts once embraced. 

“Jakob…” 

Other than his name, she couldn’t find any other word to fill in the awkwardness. What should she say? _Are you coming to let me know your decision?_ But he saw Remi. Again. _Things weren’t always what they seemed._ And he decided to leave. _Don’t go, there was nothing between Remi and I._ But then, was it really _nothing_ to him?

“I brought you flowers from my garden,” his voice was low, but still made her heart stir. “I hope you like flowers.” 

Of course, she liked flowers. She liked _his_ flowers. 

“I…I like flowers, thank you,” she stammered. 

He nodded uncomfortably, looking down at their feet – his deck shoes and her wedges. He used to say her feet were so small. She used to say he was Bigfoot. She liked to plug her small feet into his big shoes, wandering around her room because she could always find them scatter on the floor. And he would laugh. And he would carry her bridal style to the bed while she was protesting in his arms. 

He turned to glance at his van, then looked at her. “I think I should go.” 

But she didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to ask her why did she kiss Remi. She wanted him to ask her why that thunderdick was here again. Therefore, she could tell him that she hated Remi so much; she could tell him that she still wanted to be with him, no matter what. Therefore, she could _explain_.

“Can we…can we talk?” she almost reached for his hand. “Please?” 

So, she clenched her unplugged hands in fists, forcefully rested at her sides. She was trying to keep herself from leaving the ground though she wouldn’t sure for how long she could do to herself.

“I don’t think it’s good timing,” he refused softly, looking at her porch. Remi was standing there. He lifted his right hand and waved it as if he was so sorry for imposing. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“He came to see Otis.”

“But Otis isn’t here.” 

And she took a deep breath, giving quietly. “He’s going back to the US tomorrow. So he dropped by, wanted to see Otis,” she then glanced up to meet his eyes. “I’m not feeling well, he just helped me to open the door.”

He nodded again, silently. His expression was unreadable. This frightened her. 

“Jakob,” nervously, she tried to speak. She wanted to regain her composure. “We can go to the coffee shop again and talk. I miss their crepe cake.”

But he gazed at her, burning her, asserting his determination. “I think we could talk next time.”

“Next time is when?” she was anxious. 

“Soon.”

“Tomorrow?”

He held his gaze on her, for a moment, then let out a sigh. “No…not tomorrow.”

Suddenly, she felt as though she was so, so small. She wasn’t someone who gave up easily, she would keep getting back and try again and again, no matter how much it caused her pain. But to Jakob, she thought as if she was weakened, she was vulnerable, she was scared. She wouldn’t dare to ask from him. For he was too good for her, for he had somehow empowered her to be so fragile that she resisted so much all along. 

The internal conflict kindled another wave of emotional turmoil. As her face turned red, as her chests felt tight, as she was still finding suitable words to try again or to give up straight – this time, Jakob stepped forward, moved himself closer to her. He reached for her shoulders – just palming her there – warm and kind enough to keep her strengthened, to keep her grounded.

“I will let you know, okay?” he whispered, softened. 

As she looked into his eyes, he shook his head gently in an attempt to comfort her and let her know things should be ended here. And she blinked, breaking their stare then nodding quietly. A compromise, she compromised; yet she knew it was a promise from him.

“Goodbye, Jean,” he left his words in the distance between them. 

Those words collided. They reminded her of how she said goodbye to him, firm and never return, she left him in the room with big windows because she didn’t want to see him leave her first. But here, he left her, climbed up his red van and left her. 

In the wind, the birds were still chirping. In the spring, many wounds were still bleeding. In the house, her shithead ex-husband was still waiting. 

In her heart, she knew it had died more than a little bit, and she started crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading again (and again)!  
> -  
> The next update would take longer time than usual because I still need some serious editing. So please be with me, okay?  
> -  
> Let me know your idea/suggestion/feedback? Thank you!


	6. Break My Heart Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by [" _Break My Heart Again_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HjmBLCbTgDo) by FINNEAS

Three days later, he texted her as promised.

He said he would come over, but she refused, she would go to see him instead. For her house was the place they ended, for his home was the place she always rejected – this time, she wanted to make things right. 

_Are you okay?_

Towards the end, she couldn’t help herself to ask, something to make sure. And he just sent her the last three words: _i am fine._

In some way, her intuition told her that might not be the truth.

Her heart was racing as she drove closer to Jakob’s cottage, fingers twitched against the steering wheel. The feeling of ceaseless anxious kicked in along the way, fogging her mind and scalding her eyes. She had this intermittent abdominal pain again in the past few days, even until now. It was something not too uncomfortable, yet it wouldn’t go away, she tried to hold back. She knew she was just too anxious, too emotional. The baby could feel. 

_“Um, j-just take care, Jeanie…”_ awkward and hesitant, Remi told her before leaving. 

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t look at him since she got back to the living room. She didn’t even look at the mess that she had just done as if the world had shielded her from reality, everything seemed so blur, so intangible. So, she just stood at the side of the couch, even the sigh Remi had breathed was so deadening that it could hardly irritate her anymore. When the door shut quietly behind her, she still stood there, her legs were weakened, but she knew she wouldn’t fall. Slowly, she moved her gaze to the wrinkled bouquet that rested on the coffee table, a few pieces of petals scattered. She couldn’t name all of them, but she could recognise magnolia in pink and purple.

Jean parked her car at the side of the drive as she came last time. Walking through the path that he had created with bricks and pebbles, she breathed more than usual in order to manage the rising anxiety that was wavering all over her. She stopped on the porch, noticed there was a bell and decided to ring it. A deep breath, waiting. 

When the magnolia wilted, she almost cried, but she managed to keep the rest of the flowers and pressed them in one of her psychological books, thick enough to let the memories dried and scorched in time. Behind her, his garden blossomed. The magnolia trees were bringing the fullest of spring. She could imagine his big hands with tattoos picking the flowers at ease, then wrapping them in kraft paper nicely and tying them up with the hemp string. He brought her flowers from his garden, she couldn’t name all them, but perhaps she could tell it was because he liked her. She hoped he still liked her. 

Jakob took some time to open the door. When she finally saw his face, her heart tightened, she thought she would die. But she didn’t. She just winced, clasping both her hands together that rested at her abdomen uncomfortably.

“Hi,” his typical greet.

“Hi,” her nervous reply, unable to smile.

Staring at her for a moment, he then opened the door wider and stepped forward. He glanced at her back, a very grey and sunless day. “Come on in. I think it’s raining soon.” 

Gently, he reached out his right hand – in a glove that was tainted with different paints – and gesturing in the air between them as a motion to welcome her. Breathing deeply, she walked past him and entered the doorway and knew that at the back, he would follow her. 

“Are you…painting?” she asked. 

Furrowing her brow, she studied him when he was closing the door behind them – gloves and apron with colourful paint stains, he wore a loose beige t-shirt and faded jeans, the long sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, revealing his extensive tattoos on both hands. 

Jakob turned around, looking down at his apron then lifting his head to meet her gaze. 

“Yeah,” he replied, small blush stained his cheeks. “Painting. On canvas. In my studio.”

She looked surprised. She had no idea at all that he would paint. 

“Come, let me show you,” tilting his head while stretching a soft smile, seemed like he was reading her mind. 

Pursing her lips, she followed him slowly to enter the kitchen. There was access from the kitchen to a corridor where the studio, bathroom and utility room were located. The vintage rustic wall lamps along the corridor were radiating their warming light, he stood before the first door at the right-hand side and pointed, _here_. Nodding slightly, she made her move quicker. Then, she saw him standing in the centre of a half-empty room filled with greyish white. 

It was a room that wasn’t too big, half wooden wall and half with bricks. There were two black pendant lights with round bases hanging from the ceiling, but the lighting of the room was mainly from the floor to ceiling French windows that she could see the woods aside. He covered the wooden floor with drop sheets – of course, it was tainted by messy paints like his apron and gloves – where he stood in front of an easel, facing his work that was in progress. At his right, there was a wooden table that was wide enough to put his numerous paints and brushes, the other tools and dirty fabric offcuts were just freely taken their places on the floor. 

The strong scent of turpentine and oil paints made her stomach flinched. Though she was holding her breaths, it couldn’t help much to her heightening sense of smell. So, she stood by the door rigidly, unable to move closer. 

“So, what are you painting?” she cleared her throat before speaking as though she could shake off the discomfort.

“Have a guess?” 

Scanning from far, all she could see was an eternity of darkness. She narrowed her eyes, trying to study harder. 

He noticed her distance, then gently beckoned to her. “Come closer.”

She took a deep breath, hesitantly stepping forward. And now the extensive darkness became a veil that was irregularly painted with different darker colours, something behind was slowly resurfaced. She stopped by his side, their breaths were synchronised.

“Wow,” staring at the canvas, she gasped. “It’s actually so big.”

“Not really. Not even one metre,” he chuckled, implying that he had worked on a bigger size.

Behind the veil, there were massive, bold green and red paints vaguely outlining an image of a human-kind – she couldn’t really recognise, Jakob’s work was too _expressive_ to her knowledge in the arts – but she guessed that was a naked woman.

“I think there’s a woman,” she considered, giving out her answer. 

He was nodding with a raising brow, impressed. “Mhm.” 

“What does it mean?” 

“Normally, I wouldn’t tell the audience the meaning of my work,” he frowned lightly, forming a mysterious smile. “Let them define themselves.”

She tilted her head and glanced at him. He looked peaceful, but she sensed something strange. Somehow in the room where the cloudy sky shielded the light, he looked tired and gloomier than the world outside. 

“To see without your eyes,” he mumbled to the air, giving the hint. “What would you see?”

Moving her gaze back to the woman behind the veil, she breathed, crossing her arms carefully. “Um…something strange,” she added. “Maybe something missing.” 

She then turned to him silently, only to find that he was watching her. He looked confused. 

“‘Missing’,” she repeated.

“Missing or _missing_?” he asked.

She went stiff, that strange feeling she had towards him since just now was crawling under her skin. 

“I don’t know, just a feeling…you asked me what I would see _without my eyes_ ,” she intoned. “So, what do you say?’

He shrugged. “Let it be what you’ve _seen_ ,” revealing that mysterious smile again, he turned away. 

“Well, do you paint a lot?”

“Used to,” he searched on the wooden table, then started looking at the floor. She thought he must have lost in the paints and brushes and tools. “But I have not painted for a long time, just picking up again recently.”

“Oh. Why now?”

“More free time,” he replied. “I can paint day and night.”

“Really? Don’t you sleep at night?” grinning, she asked casually.

He didn’t answer her immediately, just keep looking for his stuff. Finally, he got the tool he wanted. A paint roller. 

Then, he looked at her, briefly but intensely. “Just more free time now.” 

The weightage of his words made her heart sink. He was getting more free time now because he wasn’t committed to a relationship. After all, there was no longer a woman he was willing to spend time with. So, he had _more free time now_.

“It’s a good thing, I think,” raising her eyebrow, a bit awkward registered that realisation. “Since it has been your hobby.”

“I learnt painting when I was a small boy,” now, he turned to the wooden table, dipping his paint roller into a tray. A vivid blue. “Painting isn’t only a hobby. It’s part of me.” 

“I didn’t know that before,” she said uncomfortably. “In fact…it seems like I don’t know many things about you.” 

Having a glance at her, he didn’t have many expressions, just moved to his standing position and raised the paint roller, resuming his progress. But she lowered her eyes as she squirmed to the fact.

In the moderate time they had known each other, what exactly did she know about Jakob? A Swedish widowed man, five years older than her, had two smart and lovely daughters, used to base in London, had a small company of his own. No, not these – his _living_ part? He snored at nights, he used the shower for a very long time, he liked healthy food and healthy lifestyle, so smoothie and home cook most of the time, he ate like a pig sometimes, but he was always clean and gentle, oh, and his things were everywhere…and these were the only things she knew about him, based on her personal experience as his… _girlfriend_ – gosh, she always shivered whenever this word jumped from her mind – for a few months’ times. If she put herself back to many months ago, all of these were not even enough for her to consider the establishment of a serious relationship. But she liked him, over the times she found herself really liked him, and he could fix her things, many things. 

“I’d like to get to know you better this time, Jakob,” she said, as he shaded the woman behind the veil with a layer of blue. She wondered if he could fix her broken heart. “I think I started to understand your desire to get to know me…because curiosity encourages social engagement, it builds connection and, then, the trust…” 

Oh God, not the scientific knowledge again. This wasn’t her intention, but she tended to throw those psychological theories out of her mouth when she was getting panic – the scent of the mixture of oil paints and turpentine made her panic – there was some pine fragrance lingered in the air, but it was just too unpleasant to her condition. The smell was so strong as she was standing in the rock zone, especially when Jakob was painting another layer again…

“I had thought it through, about us…uh, and this time, I –” she closed her eyes tightly, taking a deep breath. Nausea and a dull ache at her abdomen were really double kill. “I want to really _know_ what you want. I, um, I hope that I can provide you with as much as you provided me…”

To her surprise, he paused, turning over and looking at her. She didn’t quite understand his expression. Confused? Shocked? Uncomfortable?

“I mean, the _trust_ you want. I want myself to be able to…open up properly, to you, so you can trust me and –” 

She looked back at him nervously. He was still…in that expression, which made her more anxious.

“Jakob, I –” she gasped, breaking off from their meeting eyes and waving her right hand between them, a gesture of excuse. “Sorry, I really need to get out of here.”

Then she fled, darting across his studio and making her way to the corridor. Sneaking into the bathroom next to his studio in a single wave movement, she closed the door behind her a bit too loud, then let out a breath. She wasn’t going to vomit, no, the nauseous feeling wasn’t too strong, she was certain that she would be okay as long as she left the studio. And she actually hadn’t been vomiting for days. It was her abdominal pain that was troubling her, dull but consistent and irritating. Without any hesitation, she pressed her palm against her belly. With the anxiety, now the dull pain made her feel uncomfortable from head to toes. She thought she might need to call Adrienne if the thing was getting worse. 

Taking one more breath to steady herself, she walked towards the sink, running her fingers under the cold tap water to calm herself. And it did calm her nerves a bit, at least she wasn’t that overwhelmed by standing next to Jakob in a room that was filled with gloomy and strong scents of paints. She knew she could do better, speak better when she got out of here and faced Jakob again. 

She shook her hands off some water droplets before drying them in a hand towel that hung on the hooker. Then she saw her abdomen again, that small swollen part that would rise and contract along with her every single breath. There was a little one growing in her expanding uterus, which she couldn’t exactly describe the feeling. For weeks she had tried not to think of it. She had tried to ignore the nausea, the exhaustion, the headache, the aversions of food and smell, the yearning of attachment…until the screening test results showed before her eyes, this was something concrete that she knew about this baby. This was the time she knew she had to decide. She raised her right hand – this time, stroking it slowly. 

“Hey…” she breathed in, fighting against the awkwardness that she was actually talking to a foetus at her ex-boyfriend’s, aka this foetus’ father’s bathroom. “I know you’re uncomfortable. And I know you’re telling me that I’m making you uncomfortable by making me feel uncomfortable too, but –” but still, she whispered. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m so, so sorry.”

She lifted her sight, staring blankly at herself in the Nordic-style round mirror. Oh, no, she did look pregnant, with her hand palmed against her abdomen, emphasizing the pronounced outline against the fabric of her light blue jumper. She wore it because it was one of the only few clothes that were still loose enough for her to conceal the truth; and because she wore it when she and Jakob met each other for the first time. And now, 13 weeks was a fact, not a hidden lie. She was shocked. When she still kept swinging between self-denial and acceptance, struggling to find a fine balance in an imbalance, had someone around her started to suspect anything on her? Don’t mention about Maggie – only God knew how she knew – but, Otis? He suspected once, and she had him dismissed once. But he thought she was ill at the time, not pregnant, definitely not pregnant, how could people think she was pregnant given her age? And how about Jakob? This was only the third time they met since the school play; did he notice something different about her? If he did, what was going on his mind? If he didn’t, she would have to tell him – she must tell him, and, then? 

“You’ve got to behave, okay? Just a while, I promise, just a little while, you’ve got to let me finish the talk with Daddy first,” she looked down again. Licking her quivering lips as to suppress the anxiety, she sighed. “And don’t be scared, okay? Even though Mummy feels scared too, but it’s nothing, it’s actually nothing. We’re always here for each other, aren’t we? So just…just stay there, okay? And behave. We will be fine, I promise you.”

Yes, she was scared and shocked, and there was a high probability that she might get stuck and cry during the conversation because emotions sure waved her over. But since she learnt that there was a baby in her womb, her life had changed forever, whether or not she recognized it. This time, she wasn’t going to be defeated by her weaknesses. She wasn’t going to let go again. She made the promise, she knew what she wanted, so she would be here – vulnerable and no more escape – to bring the honesty to herself, to Jakob, and, more importantly, to _their baby_.

When she opened the door, Jakob was standing right in front of her. He wasn’t too close to the door, but he had rested his right hand on the door frame, waiting for her.

Outside, it started raining. And he was waiting for her. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she replied, beaming a soft smile. “I’m okay.”

•

She said she needed to sit down and have a cup of tea. So, he nodded, removed all his gloves and apron, and guided her to the kitchen. And now, she was sitting across his avant-garde breakfast table that took the centre stage – very bold red, irregular wave-shaped – but surprisingly compatible with his vibrant wooden interior design with a collection of oak and pine units. A collision of modern and retro aesthetic.

Facing backwards from her, he worked at the oak countertop beside the Belfast sink. He was a practical man, he installed a water dispenser with hot, warm and cold water all at once instead of using a kettle like her. So, it saved time. All he needed to do was turning around between the countertop and the kitchen island, picking up the cups from the rack – one for him and one for her – then dropping the teabags. His kitchen was kept half-organised, well-equipped with kitchen appliances and the essentials that were all accessible. He really was practical, so that he would make her the pan shelf, which she refused to look at again whenever she entered the larder because it made her heart ached. 

When he handed her the tea, she was studying a strange fishbowl at the end of the breakfast table. It was strange because it kept something else instead of the supposed pet fish – almost three-quarters of the fishbowl was filled with coins and screws and some papers, possibly receipts, and even with some pens. All these things could mostly be found in his pockets, and it used to be found all over her place.

“Once upon a time, there lived a goldfish named Olof Nyman,” he started storying when she looked back at him. Settling himself at the table, then, he added, “Not named after that _Frozen_ thing though.” 

“Huh?”

“ _Olaf_. From _Frozen_.” 

“What is _Frozen_?” the only thing she could think of was the frozen food commercial on TV. 

“Um…” he said, trying his best not to sing, but – “ _Let it go, let it gooo, can’t hold it back anymoreeeeee_?” 

With suppressed laughter and widened eyes, she gave him a rigid headshake, pretending she wasn’t terrified.

“Okay, forget about it,” he waved his hand in the air, embarrassed. “Olof was happy and cute and very fat. But one day he was missing, I couldn’t find him. So, I asked Ola. She said there was a naughty cat that sneaked into our house and caught Olof away.”

“Oh, that was so sad.”

“But I knew who that naughty cat was,” he said with a secret grin. “Ola didn’t like Olof because I told her we couldn’t have a dog, so I gave her goldfish. Three, actually,” then, he let out a dramatic sigh. “One died. One was being flushed into the toilet, _by itself_ , according to Ola. And the last one went missing because of a naughty cat, according to Ola too.”

Despite that this was actually a story that ended with a bad ending, she should sympathise with the destiny of those pity goldfish, but she burst into genuine laughter. She really laughed so hard.

“Seriously?” a series of chuckles. “Ola?” 

“Yeah. She was still little at that time,” shaking his head gently, he smiled at that precious funny memory too. “Kids being kids. Very naughty.”

“Well, at least you’ve got a place to _keep_ all your loose change,” she smirked before raising her cup for a sip. 

And he nodded before following her to take up his own cup. Then, he looked up at the wooden beam. 

Seeing him nodded with agreement, it made her feel comforted. The tea he made for her made her feel comforted. The faintly smile beamed across his face made her feel comforted. Even the funny little story he told her though she had no idea at all what _Frozen_ was – _Olaf_ or _Olof_? Whatever. Oh, and that silly song – it still made her feel comforted. When he lowered his eyes and met hers, she looked back at him. She looked at those loose strands of fringe fallen over his forehead, those sprinkle of paints at his right eyebrow and temple that he didn’t know was there, those fine lines bracketed his mouth that parenthesised the words she wanted to hear for the rest of her life, and nothing should she doubt again. 

This was the moment she could visualise in mind: him and her, spending their evening together through sun day or rain, just sitting across the table, sipping their cups of tea and exchanging old stories; then, him and her again – exhausted middle-aged parents to a fussy newborn, Jean would cry because of sore nipples for breastfeeding, or because of their little baby finally slept through nights that made her so happy, but he would wrap her tight in his big warm arms for better for worse, he would tell her there was nothing to worry about because she wasn’t alone, he would take her and their baby to sit on the bench by his garden at night, the baby on his chest and her head on his shoulder, they would be sheathed in a blanket that was big enough, warm enough to cover three of them, they would be counting the stars and humming the lullabies that passed down from generation to generation. Outside, the sound of raindrops falling to the ground didn’t bother her; inside, the temperature getting colder didn’t bother her either. She felt warmth, not the warmness of the cup that she grasped with both hands that gave her this feeling; it was Jakob, it was all of him that made her wounded heart warmth. If he wanted to, she would let all the pieces pictured in her mind leak themselves into real life. 

“Jakob,” she said, couldn’t deny the hope that she felt. “I want to tell you something.”

He broke off their gaze, bringing his arms to the table as to be prepared. “I think I know what you want to tell me.”

She frowned, unable to deduce his next words all of the sudden.

“You’ve told me so many things, Jean,” quietly, he said. “Your thoughts, your feelings…maybe more than the time when we were still together,” and he smiled at her with his saddened eyes again. “I’m happy, really happy. Thank you.”

“Ah, it-it’s actually nothing. You shouldn’t thank me for that,” embarrassed and anxious, she shut her eyes. But there was also a relief that radiated from her chest. He was happy, she would be happy as well. And for she already talked so much, she would be able to tell him too. “Jakob, what I really want to tell you is that…” taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes nervously. She and their baby would be fine. “Don’t freak out, okay? But I, uh, I’m pre –”

“I don’t think I can do this again.”

A snap. 

She stared at him. Her mind went blank. She thought her lungs had just stopped functioning.

"I don’t want to hurt you, Jean. Never, never want to hurt you,” he looked into her eyes again, sincerely sorry, sincerely made her heart break. “So, let’s just…stop here. Don’t think anymore. It’s for the best.” 

Another snap. 

Moments later, only she could breathe again. She blinked involuntarily, trying to use her remaining courage to compose herself.

“Is it…” the flowers were still fresh in memory, and the efforts were delicate. She was certain he came to see her with a decision – with his refreshing image to the cashmere jumper to the flower bouquet – she knew he even came with a _positive_ decision. But at this moment, sitting right in front of her, he said he didn’t. “Is it because of Remi?”

“No,” he said with a firm tone, shaking his head gently. “He isn’t a good man, I know you have nothing to do with him.”

“But…you’ve changed your mind?” 

He looked at her, no answer. But she knew this was exactly the answer.

“Why, Jakob?”

“It’s just…” he lowered his eyes, giving quietly. “Just me.”

Tears were forming in her eyes, she frowned. “I don’t understand.” 

Leaning backwards, he closed his eyes, brought his arms to his chest to form a guarded hug. It was a sign of distance, a sign of avoidance. The steam of their hot teas was still rising, the rain outside was still falling. She swallowed hard, but her eyes kept pinning on him so that she wouldn’t miss out on any single hint which he had accidentally given away that carried the true meaning – he liked her, he would still like her.

“I can’t give myself to you, Jean,” after a long silence, he finally managed. “Very difficult for me…to trust you anymore.”

Her heart was racing. Her world was spinning. She didn’t understand. But she had to think, she had to understand. She wanted to know exactly _why_. 

“Is it because of something that you’re afraid of?” her voice was surprisingly calmed. Her therapeutic habits were kicked in.

He nodded, hardly.

And it was confirmed. She bit her bottom lip before asking hesitantly. “Can you please tell me what is that?”

“I…” he sighed, she could see his efforts – he was trying to…resist. “I can't.”

“This is…this is not usual, this is…not you,” she gave, she couldn’t think of a better word. “You’re always so open, you’re so expressive to me. What is that? What is the thing that stopped you from telling me the truth?” 

He started to breathe deeper. His furrowing brow was trapping some meanings that she couldn't decipher. 

“Please don’t avoid me, Jakob,” she breathed. Suddenly, she realised she was the one who avoided him before. She was going through what Jakob had been going through.

There was a moment his blue eyes weren’t avoided again. There was a moment his calmness could burn her into ashes. 

“It’s…you, Jean.”

“So, you’re telling me that…” her lips trembled. All her therapeutic armour crumbled at once. “You’re afraid of me?”

“I’m afraid to _hurt you_ ,” she could hear his voice breaking. The moisture in his eyes reflected the painful truth that lay between them. “Because, when I’m falling…you won’t be able to catch me.” 

It was true. She had sensed it since the beginning. She could see scars on this man – laid upon his shoulders, framed in his eyes, inserted into his skins with every single tattoo that carried their very own meanings. Too heavy.

She knew he wasn’t a man that she was capable of taking seriously. She was scared. She was too independent in a relationship to ever let someone depend on her, to ask from her. She wasn’t good enough to be dependent because she would never be able to give someone the same. For Jakob cared so much, too good for her, far better than any man she had ever met – could she ever truly, completely, sincerely give herself to him, to embrace him, to love him?

She knew she couldn’t. But then somehow, bit by bit, her affirmation turned to uncertain; which made the whole situation more complicated, more uncontrollable, more terrifying. Therefore, she kissed Remi so that she could seek the way out to catch a breath. Therefore, she blamed him for every single thing that invaded her personal space so that she wouldn’t remember how much she had ever let him in to occupy her life. Therefore, she pushed him away in the end, so that the uncertainty wouldn’t become something that haunted her and result in a lifetime of nightmare.

But she was still being haunted, she was still stuck in regret. Except for the uncertainty oppositely became another kind of certainty.

This time, she wanted to stay, she wanted to trust Jakob, she wanted to face everything that threatened her instinct. She didn’t want to pick her head up and walk away as if she didn’t be bothered by what he said. She didn’t want to flee from him again because it only made her realise how much she had painfully fallen into this man, far more than she ever wanted to be, far more than she thought she could properly love a man. 

“I kept rejecting people, I hurt them, and I ruined these all too simply. Because I was afraid, because I wished I was strong,” tears seemed to find their way to escape from her eyes, she wasn’t going to hold it. She was going to _say it_. “But the truth is, I wasn’t strong. My independence was my protection that didn’t work, not anymore, because I’ve met you. And you…you meant so much to me, Jakob, so much more than perhaps you and I realised. I don’t want to keep persuading myself for the rest of my life that I would be okay without you because I would not. I want myself to admit that I need someone, that I would miss him so bad, that I want to get to really know him, that I would tell him honestly this time, ‘I want my personal space, so don’t mess it up because there’re a lot more spaces that I’d like to grow older with you.’” 

Admission of one’s deepest vulnerability was hurt, but she knew he was touched, even it was only a saddened smile. She showed him these, these were all she was willing to give him – fragile, open-hearted, trust – the intimacy that he ever wanted. From his steamy blue eyes, she could see the reflection of her barest self. 

“Jakob, you’re the one. There’s no more doubt, afraid, reserved, this is me, this is just…me,” and her voice cracked, her tears streamed like the rain outside – as she could still remember his words that danced in the air, his desire that echoed between the distance, _“…is it enough for you to need me?”_ – but she still forced herself to speak it aloud. “It’s always – always, more than just I want you,” so that she could make him understand, she wanted _herself_ to understand. “I _need_ you in my life, Jakob.”

She was ready to love him back. All of him, even with the single piece that he left within her.

But the eyes that were meeting hers were quiet as the deep ocean, no more cloudless sky that she ever longed for. Two pools of the silent ocean – no wind, no wave that was curling into a strong arc that could sweep away lives and crash them with thunders. It was something underneath the water surface that emitted the sense of the most dangerous, steady and forceful enough to pierce through her entirely, leaving no space for breath and expansion. 

“Jean…” he whispered her name in the way she liked the most. Soft and low and ethereal, audible enough for her only to be heard. “I’m really glad…to be able to, hear you say these words to me,” and he pursed his lips so tight, and his hands clenched into fists with his swampy eyes. “But…”

He didn’t say it. He didn’t say it, just gazed at her solemnly, already telling her the answer without further entry. Unspoken words had been stabbing her with the dagger that made her heart slit.

She turned away, shutting her eyes tight, pressing her thumbs into her eyes. As she sobbed, her other hand was gripping her thigh, struggling for control. Her abdomen was throbbing with pain. Her chest ached to a degree as if it was punched into a huge hole, the wounded heart was ripped out from where it had been, still carrying its blood vessels but being smashed into pieces by bare hands. The pain radiated from her chest, leaving nothing but ragged and unhealed and emptiness in wracking waves through her entire body. She clenched her teeth, fighting waves of ache that grew stronger and stronger. She had lost track of the passage of time as she couldn’t hear her pulse. As if there was no more beating heart. As if she hadn’t survived.

“Jean…”

She raised her hand, trying to stop him. But it didn’t help any.

“I can’t let you be with me,” he said. His voice was lower than usual, almost lost in the drizzling sound in the background. “I don’t want to…hurt you.”

Slowly, she turned to him, looking into his eyes with all her might. “You know there’s nothing less hurt than…asking me, to leave you.”

She wanted him to see her clearly, she wanted him to know this was her. This was her who desperately in love with him, who was greatly hurt by him.

“If you’re not able to catch me, I may make you fall with me...” his eyes reddened, he said it decisively. “I can't do this to you, Jean.”

He uttered his decision words by words, clear enough for her to understand its finality. Somehow, the pain felt real, much more intense than what she felt psychological. She thought the opened wounds must be bleeding. Her entire body throbbed as if she was being beaten incessantly, yet she still gasped for the air that wasn’t going to help her breathing. 

She looked into his eyes again, _really_ looked at him, deep enough to make herself ached. The giant blue eyes, the warming blue eyes, the piercing blue eyes. The eyes she wanted to look into when she first opened her own eyes in the morning, the eyes that were so determined to see her being torn apart now as her efforts earned him nothing. Until she could no longer hold these eyes, until these eyes burnt itself to her glassy eyes.

“I’m pregnant,” forcefully, she let out the words that couldn’t fit her mouth. She found herself whirling against her own words as if she was walking on the floating clouds, her feet couldn’t touch the ground. 

He was dazed by her revelation. He stared at her as though he didn’t understand her words at all. 

She repeated it, trying to pull them back to the surface of reality. “I’m pregnant, Jakob.”

Still, he was startled across the table, let every second between them pass like the sands slipping through their fingers. She held his gaze, there was a moment she thought it wasn’t him. He looked intense, angry and confused – nothing ever felt like the Jakob she knew. All of the sudden, the panic rose within her as the adrenaline rushing through her bloodstreams, shakily, she felt as if she was looked bare for the sin.

“You know…" finally, he spoke. All his facial muscles tensed to his words. "I had a vasectomy.”

“I know,” and then, she was choked by the sudden pain. She winced, _something was wrong_.

“You know I could not have more children.” 

He said it ever so serious, he said it ever so clear as if she must have _known_. She saw his face turned red, the lines of his veins were protruding against the skin of his forehead. And he looked hurt, he looked disbelief, he looked as though he could bring storms into this house to split her into half!

“I know what you’re thinking, but please, listen to me –”

“I think you should go now.”

“You think this isn’t your child?” breathing shakily, she muttered. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze, she was hurt too. 

He stayed silent, pinning himself on the chair rigidly, his body went stiff. But his eyes flickered, for the first time in her life, she saw his blue eyes turn into a real ocean - above the dark circles, tears dropped from his reddened eyes. 

She almost broke down the moment she saw him cried – the moment she knew there was no baby in their arms while counting the stars from the night sky, there was no holding and nursing their baby for the first time, there was no more chance to feel the little kicks inside – and to what she painfully realised, there was no longer him and her. His tears were hurling an insult down to her spine as if she was humiliating him with something that didn’t even belong to him. 

“I'm sorry...but you really need to go now, Jean,” he breathed deeply, composed himself, still gentle as he used to be. "Please take care." 

Had her heart ever been healed to be broken again? Or it would never be pumping against her chest again? Though she knew rationally, her heart must still be beating, her lungs must still be intact. But she knew she wasn’t alive, her life had been fragmented into pieces that would never be able to be put together.

She broke off, she understood. 

“All the words you’ve spoken today was, based on your…rooted distrust of me,” she felt herself blue with cold. The pain sunk deeply into her bones. “You know, I wasn’t –” she paused, biting her bottom lip, too painful. “I wasn’t _not trying _at all…I’ve tried for you…”__

____

She brought herself to glance at him one last time. But he gently brought his hands to cover his face, blocking her out of his world.

____

“I don’t think we’ll see each other again…” she used up her last strength to whisper her farewell. “So...I hope you’ll be very happy, Jakob.”

____

And she stood, leaving him since then. 

____

Walking into the drizzle, she could see the magnolia was blown to the ground. Closing the door of her car, shaking heavily, she finally cried out.

____

The sharp pain struck across her lower abdomen. She was bleeding. She was _really_ bleeding.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I'm really sorry if I caused you any pain after reading this chapter...  
> -  
> I know I'm bad...but I can tell you my heart was broken again and again when writing this chapter. Love is painful and complicated.  
> -  
> Next chapter will be the last chapter according to my plan. So what can I say? Just “fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night!”  
> -  
> And it's okay if you want to cry at me, curse me, f**k me because I made Jeankob's life so hard...just let me know in the comment, okay? I LOVE JEANKOB BUT I AM SORRY!!!


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by [" _Epilogue_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTSGd7F9atw) by Keaton Henson

#### The Present

Psychologically, it’s true that you can get a broken heart for intense physical and emotional events. It’s a scientific thing, it really is.

_Lost_ , for example, is often being attributed as the precedent of broken heart syndrome. If you’d like to know more, biological perspective also takes its place on the stage: the secretion of steroid causes higher blood pressure and racing heartbeats for the state of excitement when one is in love, similarly, people generally can’t withstand the feeling of pain brought by the elevated steroid when love is gone; also, it can be caused by the surge of stress hormones – says, adrenaline – that might responsible for some temporary damage of people’s heart; not to forget some researchers actually found that the differences in humans’ heart structure can result in a short-term constriction of large or small arteries of the heart…

Extreme pain. The bleeding won’t stop, and she’s in pain. 

The sun sets in the patchy drizzle, in the bathroom with dimly green, the air is still and silent. Jean sits on the toilet naked, clutching her abdomen – from pain, damp, and cold, the shivering shakes her entire body, awakes her – for the first time in her life, she doesn’t know what to expect when she opens her eyes again. 

The pain seems to penetrate deep into her soul. Because she can’t distinguish the pain that is rooted in physical or emotional…or both, or none of them. She’s just too painful. 

Her hair is still wet from the shower, droplets of water drip from the hair ends, slipping through the edge of her collarbone, then down to her bare chest. Her back arches inward to accommodate the waving pain that centred in her lower abdomen. On her face, tears streaming down from the eyes in silence.

Tears have blurred the sight, her eyes are sore and swollen. Enough of tears, enough of pain. But when she’s shutting her eyes, she can still feel the hot tears that roll down her cheek; she can feel the warmness that slips out of her. The _real_ feeling – the slippery, the fear, together with the tearing ache that was amplified to the maximum and shot down to her spine. Cramping, heavy, intense, it’s more than just menstrual pain. From every meaning, she knows it’s much more than that.

Because there was a baby, there was a _life_. 

Slowly, she opens her eyes, taking off her hands that clutched her abdomen so tight. She takes a deep breath, using all her strength to pull herself together to gaze down again.

Her small but thick and protruding belly, the contour of the gentle curve – there’s her baby. A shallow pregnancy line is running down from her belly button to the pubic area, not really darkened yet but noticeable. Using her index finger to trace the pattern on her skin, she breathes shakily. For this long time, has she ever truly _looked at it_? Has she ever accepted the fact that she was having it?

She thought she was ready for this, she was always ready for this, she even thought it’s fine if it ever leaves her itself. After all, no one expects for its coming. As long as she wouldn’t need to make the decision herself, she’ll be okay with this. 

And now, when the natural decides to take the next step for her, her body does what’s the best for her, she realised it wasn’t what she wanted – fuck the repressed emotional attachment, fuck those hundreds or thousands of reasons that she can’t have a baby – she knows it now, she wants it. She _really_ wants it!

But she’s losing it. Through the fresh blood that leaves her body little by little, she knows she’s losing it now.

Tears are fogging her eyes again, and she can’t breathe.

Perhaps the baby blames her for not being brave enough to want it. Perhaps, it was even herself who did this to it because she ruined all the precious chances that were given to her. She was the one who destroyed herself, and she destroys it now.

A silent scream escapes from her trembling mouth.

She can feel the sky crumbles, the fragments are falling with the fading stars. Eventually, the fallen pieces will lay upon her bare shoulders, invisible but strong enough to crush all of her. 

Another wave of cramping pain. Sharp and intense. This time, she closes her eyes, purses her lips into a fine line, enduring the pain.

She wonders if she will be able to live. She wonders if she will ever allow herself to live.

•

“Um, Mum?”

Anxiously, Otis stands before the bathroom door. He clutches his left hand around the stomach, the spare right hand fidgeted after knocking on the door. So he balls them into a fist, sending small punches to his mouth while waiting nervously.

He has been away from home for more than a week. 11 days to be exact, of course, he counted. Though he knows what he has done is greatly unpardonable, and he fully understands that Jean has every right not to forgive him for the rest of his life. But, it’s been so long. And what was his father saying when he called him that day? _“You should go home to see your Mum. Make your redemption when you can spend most of your time with her.”_ Perhaps he was right. It shouldn’t be continuous avoidance, and it’s long enough for both of them to calm down. He should go back home, then spend the rest of the holidays with his mother. Maybe she’ll still be cold with him, maybe things aren’t that simple as he contemplates, but what’s more important than going home to his own mother?

So, he’s here. And, to be honest, he’s so glad to be home.

He stops punching his mouth, looks straight at the door while taking a deep breath. Hesitantly, he reaches out his hand to knock on the door again. 

“Mum, are you alright in there?” leaning forward, he shouts gently, trying not to kiss the door. “You’ve been there like…nearly an hour, I guess?” he has to take a pause to recall how long he has arrived home. 

No response. 

He steps closer, then pastes his right ear on the door, trying to figure out what’s going on inside. No steady burble of the running water, no white noise of the hairdryer. Surprisingly, not even a single sound.

Suddenly, the door opened. Otis flinches at the unexpected encounter.

“Oh – Mum?!” he screams. No, not exactly a scream, more like an extreme-shocked gasp. 

Jean appears right in front of him, already dressed for the night – the yellow robe and the silken nightdress, but she carries a terrifying blank look in her eyes as if her soul was taken away. Her damp fringe loosely falls over her forehead, her face is pale like the sheet of white paper, pronouncing her swollen, reddened eyes. 

She looks extremely exhausted. And it’s obvious she just had a shower, but steamy sweat already broke out on her exposed chest.

“Mum, you okay?” his voice breaks. Her look really frightened him.

Far from what Otis can remember, he hardly sees Jean present herself in this way. Like, never. She’s standing with her bare feet – shorter than their usual eye-levels – which makes her look even smaller and defenceless than ever, fragile enough that she can be broken by merely a single touch. There must be something awful that has happened, for sure, he swallows a hard gut. But he has no more hesitation. He actually leans over so that he can check on her.

But she avoids her son’s concerned eyes, flashing a faint smile. 

“I’m okay,” even her voice now becomes raspy.

“You’re absolutely _not okay_ ,” Otis frowns, alert. “Tell me, Mum, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m 17, not 7,” scanning her carefully, he gives. “I’m sure you know that.”

She lets out a weak sigh, but doesn’t dare to catch a breath. For now, even breathing makes her painfully shake. She still has her last bit of strength, maybe just enough for her to keep herself grounded before she’s breaking down into pieces, to recall what Jakob has said to her.

_When he came home, give him a hug or whatever. Let him know you love him no matter what…_

So, suffering, she steps forward to reach Otis. 

“Darling…” she stands on tiptoe, stretching her arms and holding him entirely.

Otis is clearly in dreadful shock. But he bends down, adjusting his position to fit in his mother’s arms.

“Okay, I didn’t see it coming,” he makes a dry joke out of awkwardness. But instinctively, he hugs her tight.

Jakob was right. Temporary separation is good. Otis, her sweetest boy, she misses him a lot. Time flies, fast enough that it can gash the skin, there’s no bleeding, just aches like the pulse under the ripped wound. He’s already so tall, he’s already 17. But he’s still the same. Achingly tender, their cuddle feels the same.

Closing her eyes, she finally breathes. It does hurt, her chest begins to tighten, but it gives her time. So that she can keep this moment a little bit longer, she can feel every hopeful detail of this moment.

“I love you so much, darling,” a single tear slides out from the corner of her eye, she whispers.

“Love you too, Mum,” softly, he replies. She can feel his arms around her tighten.

Jakob was right again. Otis loves her. Kids already love them even when they’re still sleeping in the womb. 

With a hard breath, she lets go of her son slowly. Composing herself, she looks into his eyes. His suspicious eyebrows are still furrowing.

“So…are you okay now?” 

She nods, smiling weakly again, not sure if it’s persuasive enough. “Just need some rest. That’s it.”

“Sure you can fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow,” he says, tone lovely. “Night, Mum. Argh – and!” he manages to throw in before she’s leaving. “I’m glad to be home. I miss you, really.”

There’s a light that enters her eyes, moisturizing the surface again. She squeezes his arms for a little while, unable to say any more word. 

When she resigned to her room, when the door closed behind her, the pain made its appearance again. It seems to have leaked itself through every aperture of this room, expanding the sorrow to every corner, flooding her all over.

She is gasping for the air that seems to never be enough to supply her lungs. Her head is throbbing, spinning as if she can pass out anytime. No more pretended fortitude to hold. She can finally use up the last bit of her strength to drag herself to the bed, climbing up to the side where Jakob used to rest.

Blankly, she’s lying on her right side, almost melting herself to the surface of the bedsheet. Her limbs and head feel heavier, her chest feels more tightened, as if the fallen sky has now confined her, adding on invisible restraints on her every single cell to suffocate her. Maybe there’s some oxygen deficiency, she can’t think, the pain has clouded her mind. She tries to breathe, she has to think. 

She should call Adrienne. She should go to the hospital. Or even more ridiculously, she should call Jakob. She’s falling right now, and all she needed is him. But then again, what’s she going to tell him? Telling him that she’s bleeding, telling him that she’s losing their child?

It’s useless. She knows it deep down. It’s useless, there’s nothing more they can do. And there’s even nothing Jakob can do for a child that he thought didn’t belong to him and them. Especially when she’s no longer the one that he wanted.

She’s exhausted, she’s cold, she can’t even cry for the help that she needs right now. But she’s alert, painfully alert, that she can feel the details of the pain that is crushing her bit by bit.

The wracking loss that emits from her lower abdomen reminding her of something – not long from now, maybe tomorrow, maybe days after – she won’t be pregnant again. All the pregnancy symptoms she once hoped to stop forever will now be ceased. No more long list of fucking reasons for to do or not to do. Because, inside her uterus, there will be no more a little life that she’s overwhelmed with but achingly longing for. No more.

But there’re still many words that buried deep in her heart that she doesn’t dare to tell it all along. She wants to thank it for coming to her, even it’s just for a short while. She wants to say sorry for not being brave enough and strong enough, she could have protected it, that she could have wanted it. She wants to ask if it can forgive her; she wants to ask if she’s given another chance, will it come back to her…

Curling inward to hold herself together, a bead of tears slips out from her left eye, crossing the nose bridge and the temple of hers, disappearing itself as the moisture that stains on the pillow. Agonisingly, she crosses her arms over her lower abdomen, forming a guarded posture. 

She hugs her lower abdomen just like the way she hugged Otis.

“Hey, my little one,” knowing that maybe it’s leaving her, she whispers, let it be the last thing she tells it. “I love you too…”

Shutting the lids of her teary eyes, she sinks.

\- THE END -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING IT TO THE END!  
> -  
> Yay! You've made it! You've gone through this! BUT I AM REALLY SORRY to provide you with such a painful reading experience!  
> I always believe that love is beautiful because it brings people suffering and precious heart-warming at the same time. Love is never simple, whatever you are. And putting it in the context of Sex Education, love is definitely NOT SIMPLE haha!  
> -  
> So this is the end of _The Melody of the Broken Heart_.  
> BAD NEWS is: It has to end this way because it was initially an one-shot fic about Jean, and it ended here.  
> But the GOOD NEWS is: I'm planning to write more Jeankob because OF COURSE who doesn't want to see them happy, right??? (hot tears)  
> However, please allow me to take some time to draft the outline and be writing again (because for me writing in English is really a struggle, don't mind me I'm going to cry again)...  
> -  
> So, if you'd like, please stay with me, okay? Thank you so much and til we see each other (on AO3) again!


End file.
